


Knights of Cydonia

by crinklefries



Series: Knights of Cydonia [1]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Multi, Series, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:56:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 120,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/pseuds/crinklefries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There is something rotten in the state of Andalucia.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Knights of Cydonia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Knights+of+Cydonia).



> **Characters:** Sergio Ramos, Fernando Torres, David Beckham, Victoria Beckham, Iker Casillas, Bojan Krkić, Sergio Canales, Gonzalo Higuaín, Xabi Alonso, Olalla Dominguez, Steven Gerrard, Jesus Navas, Raúl González, Guti Hernández, Roy Hodgson, José Mourinho, Cesc Fàbregas, Gerard Piqué, Cristiano Ronaldo, Kaká  
>  **Ships:** _(present)_ Fernando/Olalla, _(in the future)_ Sergio/Fernando, David/Iker, Bojan/BB Serge, Stevie/Xabi, Cesc/Piqué, Raúl /Guti, Cristiano/Kaká
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Minus the Gladiator-esque themes, I own everything except for the footballers themselves. None of this happened and certainly none of them are actual royalty. Except probably Xabi.
> 
> Title blatantly stolen from [the Muse song](http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Knights-Of-Cydonia-lyrics-Muse/2097388B70217CF748257182000E3622) of the same name. Consider it the theme song.
> 
>  **Standing Note:** Andalucia is a region of Spain, certainly not its own kingdom (or at least it hasn’t been for a good 500 years). Consider this an AU Spain in an AU world structure. Andalucia was chosen because of the presence of Cordoba within its boundaries and the historical connections Cordoba has to royalty/monarchy. I do not claim to know a thing about Andalusian culture, so again. AU AU AU.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Chapter:** _I. Prologue_  
>  **Word Count:** 1,796  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)
> 
>  **Notes:** I'm in the process of transferring some of my fic over to AO3. Knights will especially be a slow process bc it's so long, yikes! But hopefully this will inspire me to finally finish it. :)

**I. Prologue**  
 _no one's going to take me alive_  


It was raining. That in and of itself was nothing particularly astonishing. Neither was the way it was raining; cold, thick sheets from death grey clouds, gathering just where the sky was darkest and cascading torrentially, water pooling in streets worn by use. The cold air hung heavily, pushing past wraps and layers of cotton and wool. The people were not so used to this kind of cold, but it was to be expected, given what day it was. 

She smiled slightly, readjusting the shawl around her, and looked up, expecting to see that familiar, depressing grey. Expecting to feel those cold sheets bear down on her slight frame, honestly. She blinked when neither greeted her. Instead, there was a black umbrella and for a moment she was disoriented because she certainly wasn’t holding it. 

“You’re going to catch a cold,” a small voice said. 

She turned her head down, eyes settling on a young boy—well, perhaps not so young anymore, but still so very young, especially on a day like this—who looked just uncomfortable enough in his stiff, black suit to make a smile tug at the corners of her mouth again.

“I thought you went home,” she said gently. She reached forward and tugged him under the umbrella with her. It was close quarters and both of them were a bit wetter for it, but it certainly did not matter very much given how wet they were to begin with. 

“I thought you were going to come to the funeral,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. 

She frowned and kept her sigh curled in her belly. He looked so young, especially now. Again, she reached forward, but this time to run her gloved fingers through his wet hair. It was dripping down onto his extremely expensive suit. 

“It looked bad, you know. And he was really mad.”

She said nothing, simply tucked his dark hair behind his ear. 

“You should have come, Victoria,” he said, louder this time, almost pleading. 

The sound of his voice nearly broke her heart. 

“I couldn’t,” Victoria finally whispered. She was not one for crying—she had stopped that a long time ago; had learned that crying was useless, it got you nowhere unless you were the kind of weak that relied upon the feeble results that it brought—but she felt like crying now. She could even feel that once-familiar burning starting in her throat.

“Why not?” the boy insisted and he leaned forward. 

“I couldn’t see them like that, Bojan,” she said, face turned. Her gloves were wet, she noticed. Too wet. Almost wet beyond repair. Her mother would have been furious if she were still alive to see them. 

The thought made her laugh, although, truthfully, it was more of a choking, strangled sound than anything resembling mirth.

Bojan said nothing this time, although something about his stance implied that he wanted to. Instead, he shifted the umbrella handle to another hand and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into a hug.

She wrapped her arms around him, knowing her dress was being ruined but also knowing that she had long stopped caring.

“When did you get so tall, Bo?” she asked, kissing the top of her brother’s head. 

“Only a little bit,” came the muffled reply from her shoulder. 

“A little bit is enough,” she answered and the thought made her throat seize again. She could remember the day Bojan was born, could remember every inch he had grown since. She could remember her mother shooing the maids out so that she could stand little Bo against his door and carefully mark his height with a pencil. There was a mark for every year; it was a birthday tradition. Now, she would have to be the one to mark the chart beside the door.

Well, no. Her stomach tightened at the thought. Now it would have to be David or Fernando.

Bojan was quiet for a moment and Victoria could almost feel him working out the pieces of the puzzle. He was so quiet sometimes, reserved in a way that wasn’t, not in the way that Fernando was, but still reserved, still a pair of eyes from the corner of the room. Bojan saw nearly everything, Victoria knew. And what was more, he understood nearly everything too. Out of the four of them, he was perhaps the most underrated. And the most brilliant. 

It made her heart ache again.

He finally pulled away from the hug and gave her a quizzical look. For just a second, Victoria almost expected him to ask the question. She expected his eyes to narrow, his voice to sound hurt, betrayed, his hands to hang limply by his sides. 

“You have to say goodbye to them, Vicky,” Bojan finally said when he spoke.

Again, Victoria found herself blinking in surprise. It only lasted a moment though, before her facial features smoothed over again. No, this was Bojan. Of course he had said nothing. 

“I know,” she finally sighed. She wrapped her slim fingers around the handle of the umbrella, just above Bojan’s own. “Come with me?” 

Bojan’s eyes wavered for a second and Victoria was sure that she saw tears there, but he blinked them away immediately and then he was calm.

“Yeah. I’ll say goodbye again.”

Gently, she tugged the umbrella forward and she and Bojan began walking toward the graves together. 

Bojan was silent, but Victoria did not doubt that he knew. She was pretty certain he knew everything. And she hadn’t breathed a word.

 

“José Torres Sanz, beloved king of Andalucia. _Por Andalucía, por su vida, por su corona_ ,” Victoria read softly. “For Andalucia, for his life, for his crown.”

She knelt beside the above-ground tomb, a simple white marble structure with gold filigree that shone with how new it was. She pressed her fingers lightly to the indentations of the engraving before looking up at her youngest brother.

Bojan was still holding the umbrella above her as she knelt, but he was decidedly looking away from the tombs in front of them. He kept shifting from one foot to the other and there was a defensive sort of air about him—a tense, indignation set into his eyebrows, although Victoria could see his bottom lip trembling. 

She sighed slightly and turned back to the tomb before standing up and brushing her cold, wet dress off. She then walked around her father’s tomb to see her mother’s.

“Jacqueline Beckham Torres, dearly loved princess of Wales, treasured queen of Andalucia. _Madre de cuatro, joya para todos._ ” Victoria’s voice wavered a little more this time and her fingernails caught in the grooves of the letters. “Mot—”

“Mother to four, jewel to all,” Bojan finished for her.

”She was,” Victoria remarked, her eyes studying the letters, but not really seeing them. After a few moments of tense silence, she spoke again. “This is what we end up as. Years of living and ruling and finding people we love and all that’s left are words in stone.”

She felt Bojan shift behind her and looked up just in time to blink a few drops of water into her eyes.

“You’re depressing,” Bojan said and Victoria was just a little amused to find how annoyed his voice sounded. 

_And at the end of the day, you’re still only 18_ , she wanted to answer, but wisely kept her words to herself.

“Can you please tell them goodbye?” he asked, his voice carrying a steely edge to it now. Now it was Victoria’s turn to be annoyed. She opened her mouth to speak to him on reverence or respect or even simple _love_ for his parents, but she shut it immediately upon seeing the look on his face. 

There was a timidity there, a simple, pure _fear_ that she hadn’t seen in him since he was even younger, when David would make him believe things that were entirely untrue. 

“I don’t like cemeteries,” he explained quietly, shifting from one foot to another.

Victoria took in a small breath and nodded, understanding. Her hands grasped around the gorgeous bouquet of roses she had been carrying and she lay them carefully on top of her mother’s tomb. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, so softly not even Bojan could hear. “I’m sorry, but even now. Even now, I can’t. _Por favor, perdóname, madre._ ” 

_Please forgive me, mother._

She quietly straightened herself again and smoothed the expensive black material that was bunching around her waist now. When she finally turned, Bojan looked sadder than she had ever seen him, his mouth formed into a little _oh_ of understanding, although he verbalized nothing.

“Bo,” Victoria whispered sadly before taking her younger brother into her arms again.

He knew, she knew. Perhaps, he had always known.

 

The day Princess Victoria Torres Beckham left the royal court of the kingdom of Andalucia, it was not raining. It was not particularly sunny either, but that had little to do with the weather’s reflections on the state of Andalucia and more to do with the fact that dawn had barely crept over the horizon when she left. 

She wrapped herself in an inconspicuous, warm coat, wrapped a shawl around her shoulder and head, found a pair of old, comfortable boots, and packed a few essentials into a backpack. She slipped past the maids, past the King and Queen’s now empty bedchamber, past her brothers’ rooms, past the kitchen, past the servants’ quarters. Victoria kept her head down, her thoughts to herself, and her fingers wrapped around a small cross she wore around her neck—a gift from her mother from when she had barely been old enough to form words.

When she slipped out the back doors, she did so without a sound, barely offering a whisper of boots against cobblestone. She pulled her shawl around her and walked the few blocks it took to distance herself from the large, ancient, beautiful stone fortress that stood impenetrable and regal against the dark morning sky. 

She quietly hailed a taxi and stuffed herself into the backseat with just her clothes and her backpack with her. 

“Where to?” the taxi driver asked, studying her curiously in the rearview mirror. 

Victoria shook her head and stared out the window.

“Just drive. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

 

The day that Princess Victoria Torres Beckham stole out of the palace without a word, the day that she closed her chamber door, the day that she left behind her entire family, her entire life, everything that she had known since the day she was born—that was the day she was set to become Victoria Torres Beckham, Queen of Andalucia. 

Not a soul knew where she disappeared to, but, then again, neither did she.


	2. Fernando: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _II. Fernando; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 5,603  
>  **Chapter Ships:** Fernando/Olalla, slight hint of David/Iker  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**II. Fernando**   
_and how can we win_   


The ceremony is entirely too long. He knows that this is an incredible day for David, an incredible day for their family, an incredible day for Andalucia. He knows that as the third oldest child, the second oldest brother, the next in line should anything happen to David, he has a responsibility. It is a responsibility to his country, first, a responsibility to the Torres line, second, and a responsibility to himself and his family, third. Right now, however, Fernando feels only a responsibility to his neck because the suit his father’s advisory council chose for him for the coronation is particularly stiff and uncomfortable and far from thinking about his potential, distant, far-off, far-fetched future as King of Andalucia, all Fernando really wants right now is to tear off his suit and the crisp, too-starched white shirt underneath and slip into jeans and a t-shirt. 

Not that that is befitting a crown prince and certainly not the one next in line for the throne. Especially not when that prince is Fernando Torres Beckham, the second most-photographed person in Andalucia and that only because he tends to politely glower at photographers when they get too close, unlike a certain older brother with naturally blond hair and a smile that blinds half the room when offered. And he doesn’t have David’s overwhelming charisma.

“How much longer?” Bojan mutters to him, shuffling in place to the side of the coronation room where they have both been standing, stiffly, for entirely too long. The entire room is silent, except for the crescendoing organ music playing in the background, and both boys can nearly feel the tension, trepidation, and excitement that have filled the air. 

“Be respectful,” Fernando chides quietly and a frown presses to Bojan’s features as he shuffles a little straighter, a little further away from Fernando than he had been. Fernando, for his part, sighs because it has always been like this, with him caring to keep up propriety’s appearance for propriety’s sake, although he thinks he is probably the biggest hypocrite he knows. 

He opens his mouth slightly to apologize to his younger brother when the priest starts to speak again and a whole slew of Latin pours out from his mouth. Fernando winces and thinks that maybe he should have paid better attention to his tutors—maybe then he would care more about David’s ascension to the throne and less about how itchy his neck is. It’s really itchy. For the record.

 

The ceremony itself is beautiful, he supposes. There are a lot of old traditions mixed with new and it would be astonishingly reverent and resounding if everything wasn’t tinged with just the barest hint of sadness. Fernando lets his eyes flicker from David’s position by the priest, past the high court and his father’s advisory council, to the knights gathered to one corner. They are in their ancient garb which mostly makes them look utterly ridiculous, because the middle ages are long past and the only reason the knight tradition is still kept in Andalucia is because Andalucia has quite a soft spot for nostalgia. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he finds a familiar face that looks so completely horrified at the chain mail and swords that the knighted regiment is forced to be carrying that he momentarily forgets that he is serving as a knight of the royal court during the coronation ceremony of his future king. 

The knight tugs uncomfortably at his chain mail and shifts from one leg to another and Fernando watches in amusement as his eyes constantly shift around the room. He knows, from strangely personal experience, that if Pipita isn’t allowed to move soon—or at least shed the ridiculous costume—there is quite a high chance that all of the knights might knock into one another soon á la the Domino Effect. 

Fernando bites back a smile as he vaguely, fruitlessly hopes that maybe Pipita will make this small dream of his come true. 

“ _And will you honor this country, honor thy people, honor thy family, be accountable to the people of Andalucia first and foremost? If you accept, then do so as our king._ ”

Fernando moves his eyes back to the priest immediately as he hears Spanish replace the glorified gibberish that is Latin. 

“Yes. I accept so,” David’s voice comes out thicker and huskier than usual, which is an interesting change since usually his voice resembles a fourteen year old girl’s. 

“ _Then take this crown and become our sovereign. Wear it well for this kingdom, King of Andalucia. Por Andalucía, por su vida, por su corona._ ”

“Por Andalucía, por su vida, por su corona,” David repeats and there is the murmur of nearly a thousand voices packed around him, repeating the Andalucian creed. 

“People of Andalucia,” the priest steps forward as David kneels. “I present to you his royal highness, our King David Torres Beckham, sovereign of Andalucia.”

Despite the fascination with chain mail, Andalucia is not so out of touch with contemporary society. As the roar of attendees resoundingly reverberates around the marble walls, Fernando sighs at the even louder clicks of camera shutters drowning out his developing migraine. He smiles tightly and claps softly and only manages to share a bemused look with Bojan before the priest places the crown on David’s head and he takes his place on his throne.

“Because he needed a bigger head,” Fernando mutters, eyes politely trained on his brother, on his new king. 

“I’m surprised the crown fits,” Bojan mutters back and Fernando doesn’t have the heart to scold or nudge him this time; mostly because he’s too busy snickering into his sleeve.

 

Fernando sighs a little and loosens his collar at the reception. He has no idea why there’s a reception for a _coronation_ , but he stopped questioning David’s logic a long time ago—namely when he had realized that it didn’t exist. 

He stands awkwardly to the side of the overflowing buffet table, sinking under the weight of too many pounds of meats and breads and cheeses and sweets and wines, weighing his chances of slipping away without getting caught. Bojan is nowhere in sight and David is surrounding by their father’s advisory council—the only one he has, since he is set to name his own in the coming week—so Fernando just about convinces himself that he can manage, when an arm slings around his own and a tall, human body invades his personal space.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you staring at me earlier,” comes a familiar voice and Fernando blinks away a smile that threatens to creep across his face. “Admit it, Torres, you want me.” 

Fernando rolls his eyes and pushes at the arm around his shoulder, but it doesn’t move an inch. He sighs exasperatedly, but he hadn’t really expected to get rid of Pipita so easily. He doesn’t _want_ to get rid of Pipita so easily either, but that is an entirely different matter. 

“Well yeah, who wouldn’t want a man in such a hot suit of armor?” Fernando smirks and the look on Pipita’s face is exactly what he wanted. Overall, a success of wit. Point to Fernando Torres. 

“Fuck, Nando, this is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn in my life,” Pipita mutters, finally withdrawing his arm and tugging at his chain mail. “I swear to God if your brother asks me to joust—”

“You want to say no to our King, or should I?” Fernando replies and snickers at the wrinkled look of discontent on Pip’s face. 

“I’d rather not be accused of treason,” Pip mutters and saddles closer to the buffet table. “Heeeeeeey so you’re the crowned prince, right?”

Fernando eyes his friend warily. 

“The last time I checked, yeah.”

“You look like you’re really hungry, like starving almost, like you look like you really need a plate or two of food and you reaaaaaaally need someone to help you carry on of the plates because you’re the crowned prince and you don’t carry plates for yourself or anything,” Pip babbles as he eyes the table. 

Fernando rolls his eyes but can’t help but laugh at his friend’s absurdity. 

“Pip, if you want to eat, just eat.” 

“I dunno,” Pip frowns, carefully eyeing a chicken leg and then eyeing Fernando and then eyeing David over Fernando’s shoulder, as though their new sovereign will have him thrown out of the hall for breaking proper Coronation Etiquette. As though he hadn’t already done so a dozen times over by now. “Well okay, maybe just one.”

Fernando laughs and picks up a grape himself to pop into his mouth when his eyes catch another pair across the room. It’s different this time than when he found Pipita earlier; it’s slower, more deliberate, has more meaning in a strange, incalculable way. It’s a pair of gentle, brown eyes, the kind that are so underrated if only because they’re always there, because they’ve always been so inconspicuous. A graceful pair of eyebrows raise just above them and a light smile comes over her face, as though she’s hiding a secret, or maybe just a laugh. 

Fernando considers waving across the room, but he thinks maybe that will be too conspicuous and anyway, she’s already folded her hands into the lap of her dress and turned toward another young woman who looks, perhaps, more vibrant, more distinct, more colorful, but certainly doesn’t have the same soft, elegant edges about her. His eyes don’t stray to the other young woman because, truthfully, he only has eyes for the one. 

“You look so dumb any time you see her,” Pip chuckles over his shoulder and Fernando immediately elbows his dumb friend, hard enough so that Pip chokes on the piece of chicken he’s devouring. 

Fernando tries to turn his gaze or at least hide the pink tinge that’s appeared across the freckles on his cheeks, but his eyes catch on how neatly her hair is swept up, on how her dress seems to accentuate every part of her that is usually so subtly hidden, but that he knows is beautiful if only because _she’s_ beautiful and he’s known _that_ since they were both barely old enough to walk.

“You _could_ just go and say hi to her,” Pip points out wisely, his mouth still full of chicken. 

Fernando sighs in exasperation and shakes his head. 

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“You’re _engaged_. You’ve been engaged since you were _born_ how much more proper could it get?” Pip asks, a bit boggle-eyed. 

“We aren’t married yet,” Fernando says, pursing his lips tightly. It’s a bit of a ridiculous excuse, considering how long they’ve been engaged and the fact that neither of them is living in the Middle Ages, but sometimes propriety makes him stop just short of acting like an actual human being. 

“And you never will be at this rate, Jesus,” Pip says, rolling his eyes. “Are you two ever going to get married? I need grandbabies.” 

There’s a sudden, unexpected tightening of his stomach, a sudden pang that strikes through his chest and he knows that Pip’s joking, that it wasn’t meant maliciously, but Fernando’s light expression disappears immediately anyway. 

Pipita isn’t stupid. His face looks stricken and he swallows his mouthful, grimacing. 

“Fuck, Nando, I’m sorry. It was meant as a joke, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it, Pip,” Fernando answers. It isn’t mean or harsh, although it comes up as a bit shorter than his usual. They’re walking on egg shells and he doesn’t want that for his friend, but he also can’t always control when the realization sets in. He looks down at his hands, studying the pale contrast against his dark suit and he wonders, probably for the hundredth time, whether or not he’ll actually feel sad about it one day, instead of just depressed. 

“Nando—” Pip starts again, worry creeping into his voice, but Fernando doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want that sympathy, doesn’t want the stricken look that comes into eyes every time they find him these days. He isn’t sad, he’s empty, and he doesn’t want to be treated like an invalid even though he feels it sometimes. 

“I’m going to go say hi to her,” he says decisively and it’s abrupt, maybe, it’s a little bit rude, maybe, but he knows Pipita will find someone else to distract himself with soon enough so Fernando doesn’t feel as badly as he might have otherwise. 

He crosses the room, weaving through crowds of people he doesn’t recognize and he doesn’t care to recognize, although they’re his people and they’re his responsibility and he should love them as his mother and father did. Mostly he smiles when people stop and smile at him, when they stop and bow, and he offers a few hurried apologies to ambassadors who want to take a few moments of his time; moments he doesn’t have to spare. 

He spies Bojan talking to a boy his age in the corner and it registers to Fernando how at ease his younger brother looks, for once, and then it registers to him how he doesn’t know him well enough to know why that might be the case. It’s a sad realization, but then, most things are these days. Fernando ignores it and pushes past the last few people before he finds his fiancée standing with two of her friends. 

“Your highness,” one of the girls—a tall blonde with full lips and a full figure and entirely too-white teeth—giggles at him and curtsies. 

“Hello,” Fernando answers politely and bows back, although he has no idea who she is and, as usual, he can’t be bothered to find out. 

He turns to his fiancée and offers her a rare, genuine smile.

“Princess,” he says and bows again.

“Prince Fernando,” his fiancée smiles and, unlike her friends, doesn’t titter or giggle. Fernando feels a familiar, pleasant warmth spread through his stomach. 

“May I take your hand?” 

“Haven’t you already?” one of the other girls—a brunette this time—giggles. Fernando makes a mental note to have giggling banned the second he becomes king. _If_ he ever becomes king, he amends in his head. 

“Just for a brief walk, my lady,” Fernando asks politely and bows to her. 

His fiancée’s smile widens slightly and she nods.

“I’ll be right back, girls,” she says to her friends and determinedly ignores their dainty laughter as she slips her hand into Fernando’s and lets him guide her through the crowd. The bow and curtsy as they go, stopping every few seconds or so as members of the crowd recognize them and fawn over them and congratulate them on such a well-made match; as though the entire kingdom wasn’t aware that they had been betrothed to each other since childhood. 

By the time they reach the edge of the grand hall, Fernando’s knees hurt a little bit from dipping down so frequently. 

“God, I’ve never seen so many people in the hall,” she says as they slip out through the doors. 

“We’ve never had such a big occasion,” Fernando mutters as he wraps his hands more fully around hers and tugs her down the hallway. He’s hurrying a bit more than he usually would, because he feels this sense of urgency in his stomach and he’s not sure where it came from, really, just that it’s burning away at his chest and throat. 

“Fernando? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice light, but Fernando can hear the barest hint of concern there.

“Yeah, hold on,” he says as his eyes sweep up and down the hallway. Of course there are about a hundred people milling about—a mixture of servants, maids, caterers, dignitaries, honored guests, friends of David’s, friends of their parents, advisory members, knights, and esteemed members of the court, which is really just a fancy way of saying People Who Claim To Have A Drop of Royal Blood In Their Veins. “This way.” 

He pulls his fiancée in the opposite direction from the crowd and the coronation reception and hurries his steps when they round the corner. Again, he peers all around them to make sure that no one is following or watching before he spies a door that is slightly ajar. 

“Fernando—” she begins, but he’s already pulling them toward the door. He creaks it open, examining the room inside, and when he’s made sure that they can be alone, he opens it wider and gestures for her to go inside so that he can follow. 

She does so without hesitation and Fernando quickly shuts the door behind them. 

“ _Fernando_ ,” she says, her voice touched with confusion and bewilderment, but also a hint of reproach. There’s another sentence forming on her lips, but Fernando doesn’t wait to hear what it is or to guess at what it might be. 

His hands close around her wrist and her question fades before it even appears as he pulls her toward him, one arm already snaking around her small waist, and presses their lips together. He can feel her tremble in his arms almost immediately and for a second he worries that he’s been too forward, that this time he really _has_ gone too far in his hypocrisy. But then he can feel her relaxing and her hands find their way to his face so that she can spread her thin fingers across warm, freckled skin. 

He kisses her hungrily, a heat boiling in the pit of his stomach that he just can’t seem to quench, and he lets go of her wrist so that he can wrap both around her waist, so that he can lift her up until her legs wrapped around his and he pushes her back against the wall just because he can hold her better that way. 

“Fernando,” she whispers against his lips as they shift closer together and he’s so far gone, he nearly moans because of it. He licks at her lips instead, urges them to open because he knows they’ll be found soon enough and they usually get so few chances to do this that sometimes it drives him crazy. 

“Olalla,” he breathes into their kiss, tongue flickering out to taste her, hands tightening at her waist and he can feel her chest heaving against his own, the barest cloths of the smoothest of dresses separating the two of them. She slides her fingers from his face to his neck and then wraps her arms around there so that she can hold onto him tighter and she’s so delicate there in his arms, so small, so fragile, so completely _his_ that he forgets he’s supposed to be a prince at all. 

His fingers go to the zipper at her back, but that’s when she stops him.

Olalla pulls away, breathless, a hand at his chest. 

“Fer, don’t. Not here,” she whispers. Fernando can see that her eyes are clouded over by how much she wants this, by how much she wants _him_ and it’s frustrating to say the least. But Fernando nods and takes a shuddering breath, withdrawing his hands back to a safe place again.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, but she shakes her head.

“Don’t. I want it too, just—not here.” Olalla gives him a tentative smile before returning her lips to his and maybe it’s not completely what he wants, but Fernando is hungry enough to accept without complaint. 

 

They finally break apart when they hear loud footsteps that are close enough to be close, but far enough away to give them time to catch their breaths. Fernando is more disheveled than he’s been in a long time, his suit jacket on the floor and his white shirt a bit more wrinkled than it had been ten minutes ago. He breathes heavily, as though he’s just run a mile and there’s just enough red across his cheeks to constitute a flush. Olalla fares no better; her neat little bun has nearly come undone and her crepe gown is even more wrinkled than the designer originally intended it to be. She takes even longer to catch her breath, but it’s with a smile that spreads across her face and lights up her eyes. Fernando bites his lower lip and quickly leans forward to press another kiss to her lips, just so she doesn’t stop.

“I missed you too,” she laughs. The sound is so familiar, so comfortable, that Fernando closes his eyes for a second, wanting to wrap himself up in something, _anything_ that hasn’t changed recently. 

Olalla quiets as the footsteps draw closer and Fernando hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he can feel her tensing, ready to be let down so that they aren’t caught by present company. However, maybe it’s because of the way he’s standing, so calmly, so still, or maybe it’s because of the way he’s holding onto her, but she doesn’t, not yet. Instead, he feels her fingertips brushing away long strands of hair from his face, feels her fingertips lightly trace down the sides of his face before she leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply. She doesn’t specify about what, but Fernando knows because he knows _her_ , has known her his entire life. He knows every detail about Olalla, every little thing that makes her smile, every big thing that makes her laugh, everything that makes her angry or upset or, occasionally, even makes her cry. She has the biggest heart out of anyone he knows and she is the only person, out of everyone he knows, that he’s willing to give even a little piece of his own heart to. She’s the only one who can say _sorry_ to Fernando and have him know that she means it.

“Thanks,” is all he says in reply because that’s all he _can_ say. He’s not in denial, not necessarily, but he’s not ready to acknowledge it yet either. The funeral was one thing, the coronation another, but saying those words, feeling them in his mouth, forming them on his lips, and spitting them out—that’s another thing entirely and Fernando isn’t sure that he’s ready yet. 

Olalla says nothing but then she straightens herself and unhooks her legs from around his. 

“Someone’s coming,” she says in a whisper and it’s his cue to let go of her, to go back to who he is expected to be. 

Fernando sighs and bends to pick up his jacket just as the door opens. 

”Oh,” he hears Olalla gasp softly, barely audibly, and he’s forced to turn his face up to see—

Well, certainly not anyone he expected.

There is a pause when uncertainty charges the room, although Fernando knows there’s no reason for it. He and Olalla have been engaged their entire lives, after all, and the manner in which they’re compromised right now is barely worth taking note of. Not that Iker Casillas would really have any reason to take note of them anyway. 

“Shouldn’t you be with David?” Fernando asks quizzically as he pulls his arms through his jacket. 

“Shouldn’t you already be wearing a jacket?” Iker grins. 

A smile threatens to tug at Fernando’s lips, but he forces a frown instead.

“It ... fell off.”

“While you were inspecting the princess?” Iker bites back a snicker.

Immediately, almost in synchronicity, Olalla and Fernando turn bright read. This only makes Iker laugh harder and which makes Fernando scowl through his embarrassment and he make a mental note to find something large to fling at his brother’s best friend’s head the next time he sees him. 

“Don’t worry, Fer, I won’t tell anyone about your secret tryst,” Iker grins and ruffles Fernando’s shaggy blond hair—quickly so that he can pull back before the prince tries to swipe at him. Which he does. Iker’s quicker than that though, and steps back into the doorway before Fernando can get to him. 

“David’s still in the hall,” Fernando says sourly, defensively.

Iker chuckles and shakes his head.

“I know where his royal highness is. Everyone does.” 

That makes Fernando frown a little, curiously.

“Then what are you—”

“Just needed a breather,” the other man shrugs. 

“Do you ever do your job?” Olalla’s voice comes from behind Fernando and he turns to find her quite recovered and with a teasing smile on her face. 

“My job isn’t nearly as fun as Fernando’s seems to be,” Iker replies, winking. 

Olalla smoothes out the bottom of her dress and takes a hairpin out of her bun to re-pin a few of the stray strands back in place. There’s a curious expression on her face, which might be considered as abashed or maybe even affronted, but that Fernando knows to be pure mischief. 

“Maybe if you did your job properly, you’d get to have some of Fernando’s fun.” 

There’s a pause and Iker’s face lights up. 

“Is that a promise from you, princess?” 

Olalla laughs and comes next to Fernando, looping her arm smoothly through his. 

“That is a word of advice, Monsieur Chief Advisor,” she says and teases by pressing a kiss to Fernando’s cheek. 

Fernando, for his part, is more than a little amused.

“I can’t decide whether I should be offended by how much you two flirt or draft a proposal for a reality show.” 

“You just watch out, El Nino,” Iker says from his position at the door. “One of these days your lady love is going to fall into my arms.” 

He winks again and blows a kiss to Olalla before moving to close the door. Fernando just thinks he’s gone when Iker sticks his head back in.

“But on the bright side, you’ll always have your amor, Gonzalo.” 

And just as quickly, Iker’s head disappears again. Fernando opens his mouth to protest, but the snickers are already fading and then it’s just silence, him, and Olalla’s unsubtle attempts to keep from bursting out laughing. 

Something _really_ big and potentially life-threatening, Fernando promises himself.

 

Olalla and Fernando return to the reception, properly tucked in and groomed and holding hands, but carefully. They both have an image to uphold, an image to protect, and while Olalla usually embodies that image perfectly, Fernando at least pretends to when he can. 

As soon as they return, they’re separated. Olalla’s friends descend upon her—much to her annoyance; Fernando can see it in the way she tenses and how hard her eyes become, although there’s a soft smile on her lips—and his father’s old advisors descend upon _him_ and Fernando contains the sigh of irritation that threatens to escape his lips. 

He tries to look over Rafael Benitez’s head as the older man begins talking to him about the merits of opening border trade with France, trying to see if he can at least find _Pipita_ , but his friend has disappeared from the buffet table and is nowhere in sight. In his place there is another young man, somewhat tall, with short, black hair cut close to his head and spiked just a little bit. He’s tanner than Fernando, but then most people are so he supposes that doesn’t say much. The young man is accompanied by a friend, it seems, who has longer, dark hair and a smile that Fernando finds almost blinding. The friend is laughing at the other young man and a glint from that general direction makes Fernando realize that he is wearing a cross around his neck and a uniform that resembles the habit worn by members of the Church. An acolyte, probably, Fernando guesses. Huh.

“What do you think, Fernando?” comes Rafa’s voice, just a little more pressing than before and Fernando blinks, looking back to the man in front of him.

“Er yeah, free trade,” Fernando repeats, a little embarrassed. “I agree, it would really … open up the borders.”

Truthfully, he has no idea what the hell he’s saying and he’s sure that’s perfectly obvious, but Rafa apparently takes this as a sign that Fernando is following him and agrees and launches into another tirade on the merits of increased economic relations with France and the resultant commercial and political soft power benefits to Andalucia. 

Fernando feels like his eyes are going to roll into the back of his head from boredom. 

He’s trying to find a reason, _any_ reason, to shake off Rafa, when he finally sees a little opening. 

“This sounds great Rafa, really,” Fernando says, smiling politely and takes the other man’s hand to shake it. Rafa looks shaken up—he was probably in the middle of an incredibly important point—but Fernando could care less. “I’ll propose it to David. Actually, I’ll go talk to him now. There looks like there’s finally an opening around our royal highness.”

“Ohhh yes, yes,” Rafa nods vigorously and looks relieved and happy that all of his efforts have not gone to waste. 

Fernando claps him on the shoulder and slips past him, feeling a little bit sorry for the next person who Rafa attacks (it turns out to be Iker, but Fernando doesn’t know this until later when the older man glowers at him from across the room), but not really because he’s determined to make an excuse to David and leave this sorry party. 

“Should I call you oh highness, my highness?” Fernando grins as he steps behind David. His brother immediately turns, a tentative, almost nervous expression on his face, but relaxes immediately when he sees who he is. 

“Thank fucking god it’s you,” David whispers as he pulls Fernando into a hug. 

“Kingly duties already getting to you?” Fernando laughs, wrapping his arms around his older brother. He’s almost surprised to feel David shaking; his brother has never been the nervous type, not in the least. Fernando pulls back, concerned. “Becks, are you okay?” 

David doesn’t look so sure at first, but then offers Fernando a weak smile at the familiar nickname. 

“I don’t know how dad did this, Fer,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s terrifying, I think I’m going to puke.”

“Not in public you’re not,” Fernando says, glaring at a few people over David’s shoulder who are trying to vie for his attention. “Dad had Mom for years and years. You’re going through this alone—well not alone, we’re here, but you know what I mean.” 

David nods, smiling sheepishly, but Fernando notices the worry that’s still etched into his eyebrows. He looks over Fernando’s shoulder and winces; there are throngs of people on both sides wanting his attention. 

“I just wasn’t expecting this, you know?” he mutters and Fernando has to squeeze his brother’s arm because he knows exactly what he’s thinking about. 

“You’re going to make a great king, Becks,” Fernando says, earnestly. His lips press into a thin line when he says the next thing. “She would have made a good queen, but—well that doesn’t matter now. You’re our monarch, you’ll be as great as dad was.” 

David looks like he’s going to make a comment to this—maybe about how Victoria should have been here, maybe about how their father wasn’t the most popular monarch, or maybe just about how he’s going to vomit all over both of them and embarrass himself in front of his country. Whatever it is, Fernando never finds out. 

“I need Iker,” David says suddenly, his eyes widening and he looks a little panicked. 

Fernando frowns and turns around, wondering what David is unduly worried about this time and—

Sighs.

“Hodgson, really?” 

“Archbishop Hodgson,” David corrects quietly, an unhappy look on his face. “He looks determined about something, fuck. I think he’s trying to become Pope.”

“I hate him,” Fernando announces, a little louder than he means to and David elbows him almost immediately, hissing “ _Shut up!_ ”

“Fuck, fuck,” he then says, looking even more panicked. “I need Iker, Fer, where is Iker?” 

“I saw him earlier,” Fernando says immediately and begins looking around the hall for his brother’s best friend and Chief Advisor. This is when he sees the other man glowering at him from across the hall. He bites back a smirk and urgently waves him over. “There. He should be coming.”

“Oh—oh good. Oh okay,” David nods and looks so relieved that Fernando is almost sure he’s going to cry.

“I’m going to leave now, David. Is that okay?” Fernando asks, looking his brother carefully in the eyes. “Are _you_ going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” David nods, a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah I’ll be fine.” 

Fernando doesn’t think he’s paying much attention, but he’s not surprised; Iker’s finally working his way through the crowd and almost to them. 

“You’re going to be fine. Dad would be proud, okay?” he says and David nods gratefully again before pulling Fernando into another, close hug.

“Thanks, Fer. Love you,” he mutters and presses a kiss to his brother’s cheek before pulling back.

“Yeah, me too,” Fernando smiles slightly and pulls away, letting Iker monopolize David’s attention as they both fall into a hurriedly whispered conference as Archbishop Hodgson breaks from talking to Councilman Guardiola and fast approaches them. 

Fernando breathes a sigh of relief as he pushes past the crowd. He briefly spots Olalla on his way out and waves to her with a smile. She shoves at one of her annoying friends and waves back, returning his smile with one of her beaming ones. 

He’s a little happier for it, but mostly he’s just happy to leave the hall and finally be on his own.


	3. Fernando; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _II. Fernando; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 6,011  
>  **Chapter Ships:** pre-Fernando/Sergio  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**II. Fernando**   
_and how can we win_   


It’s not that Fernando in any way hates his kingdom or his country or his brother or people in general. On the contrary, he’s as proud as he’s ever been. Perhaps a little sadder, perhaps a little more melancholic, perhaps a little rougher around the edges, but that’s to be expected of someone who has just lost his king, his queen, and, what’s more, his parents and, in an unexpected twist, his sister too. But despite his demeanor, despite his constant irritation, despite the fact that he frowns more than he smiles these days, this is his home, his people, his country. 

He sighs heavily as twilight settles around him, pulling his hoodie close as though he’s warding off cool winds that aren’t actually biting through to his skin. It’s not exactly clothing befitting a prince, but then, neither are the torn jeans he’s wearing or the too-worn converses. Truthfully, this is Fernando at his finest, when he’s ripped off the itchy, stiff, uncomfortable suits and robes and uniforms and donned a simple, worn-in outfit that would make him look every part the commoner if he hadn’t bleached his hair into that shocking blond and if his face wasn’t a safe haven for freckles. 

Almost immediately, as soon as the thought occurs to him, he self-consciously rubs the palm of his hand across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, as though rubbing against them will somehow lighten the spots there. It really does nothing except cause friction which, as per usual, just makes his skin turn pink. He breathes out a little puff of air that hangs in front of him before dissipating and he’s tempted, for just a second, to return to his bad habits. But then he shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets, because he doesn’t have packs anymore or even a lighter on him because of the _one time_ David caught him and told their parents and it was just the one time that Fernando had let his mask slip enough to be caught. He supposes he could have continued in secret, but he had never liked disappointing his parents, whether or not anybody had ever believed him.

The problem had never been them, anyway, or even the duty, it had been the uncertainty he had been stuck with since birth—the third child, the second oldest son; not exactly meant for greatness, but with the opportunity just there, barely out of reach. There were, at once, too many expectations and too few expectations and Fernando had grown up not knowing which to strive for or when. There was a brief period of his life when he had decided to say fuck it, had decided it wasn’t worth the effort, but that had lasted all of a week before his mother had looked at him in that _way_ of hers and really, maybe he hadn’t been cut out for that kind of a life anyway. 

But then, he didn’t really think he was cut out for this one either. He was left somewhere frustratingly in the middle and it had only gotten worse since his parents had—

Fernando takes in a sharp breath, pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind immediately. There are certain things, he’s come to learn, that are difficult to avoid. He’s recently revised this life philosophy to include: unless you don’t think about them at all. 

He starts walking in a direction, any direction really, and he thinks that it almost reminds him of Aladdin, the way his life is so bound to the fortress behind him. There are walls to each side and maybe once he had had the option to leave them, but that was before everything had changed. That was when he had been third in line for the throne and not second. That was when he had had an older sister who was going to become queen, but years and years from now. That was, namely, when he had had parents he knew he could come back to, who would love him despite everything. 

But even now, he can’t help but think of the Princess Jasmine, climbing over the wall and sneaking out, only telling Raja goodbye. 

He’s not a fucking princess and he doesn’t really have a best friend, but those boundaries are still there and, for once, he feels like breaking every last one of them and not covering his tracks after. 

Fernando shuffles forward across the grass, walks discreetly around so that he avoids any person who might stop him because they recognize him. He passes a tree that he remembers only too well. It has his name engraved underneath an extremely low branch because he was four and couldn’t climb up yet. There’s another name engraved on a branch higher up to accompany it because he was ten and _needed_ to mark his name, to prove he was there. He remembers that tree only too well because it symbolizes everything—how long he’s been here, how rooted he is, how every piece of him is so engraved into this palace that he can’t breathe in anymore.

It when he passes this tree, this relic of a family that’s barely there, of memories that he barely remembers, of people he’s barely loved when it seizes him—a sudden, unmistakable fear that he’s going to suffocate. He’s going to suffocate right here, right where he’s standing. He can feel his lungs start to freeze and his brain panics from blind fear. 

His feet are hitting the ground fast, hard, adrenaline that is threatening to send him into cardiac arrest pumping through each part of his body. He doesn’t feel revitalized or energized, he feels sick, feels like he’s going to throw up, feels like if he doesn’t keep running, if his feet don’t keep hitting the ground, if his legs don’t keep burning then his body will close up right now and he won’t find his way back out again.

It’s this fear, this debilitating, crippling, paralyzing fear that has him running and Fernando runs past the grounds and past the guards and past the front gates and it’s only when his feet hit concrete and gravel that he thinks that maybe Victoria had the right idea after all.

 

It’s the scene from Aladdin where Princess Jasmine weaves her way through the village for the first time, only this is a town, not a village, and Fernando has been here before, albeit not exactly as alone as he is and not exactly dressed as he is. He feels awkward at first, as he always does in new situations, but it’s soon clear to him that no one’s paying any attention to the lone, thin, blond boy swimming in clothes too big and a burden too heavy. It’s just as well, he thinks as he tugs the hood of his sweatshirt up to cover his conspicuous hair—once upon a time that had been the entire point; now it brought attention to everything he wanted to avoid altogether—and sticks his hands into his jeans pockets. 

Fernando breathes in the cool evening air and shakes his head a little bit, dislodging some of the lingering melancholy that has been there for so long now he can barely remember what it feels like to not be intimately acquainted with it. He forgets, sometimes, that there is a life outside of the one spinning around in his head and it’s only when he forces himself to look beyond himself that he remembers to smile. 

It’s there now, barely on the tip of lips, but he holds it in, reserves judgment, as his worn converses begin making contact with the cobblestones. The town beyond the palace isn’t particularly enormous. The fortress in the distance announces the capital of the Andalucian kingdom, the bastion of power in a country that is, at best, floundering. And maybe that’s why the city the palace hedges is so unimpressive, why it seems to melt into the background—because that’s what Andalucia is; a country that fades into the background of an overstretched, high-powered, overly bureaucratic monarchy. 

The town isn’t big, but it has its own, distinct Andalucian flavor and that’s why Fernando likes the taste of it on his skin. As evening hues of purple and navy and charcoal spill across the sky, lights begin flickering on down the streets. The streets themselves are narrow and the cobblestones make it difficult to walk comfortably, but they add a quaint sort of character that complements and directly contrasts the white stone palace sitting in the distance. The buildings are old and, in many cases, crumbling at the edges, but they’re brightly colored with bright red bricks and orange and blue and purple roofs and shutters painted shades of pink and yellow, as though children had run through the streets with a set of watercolors and the adults had forgotten to tell them to stop. Fernando stops under a flickering streetlight and it makes him smile a little, because he’s been to England, he’s been to the rest of Europe and the lights are nothing so clinical or commercial; instead, they resemble gas lamps and the ironwork has lions on them that are painted a deep, chipping red, despite the fact that Andalucia has never been and will never be home to lions. 

He reaches out to touch the letters that are raised on this particular lamp— _JIV_. He smiles a little at that, sadly, because it’s _Jose I, Rey_ and it’s a mark of time, this simple street lamp that was put up during his father’s tragically short reign. Fernando withdraws his hand, swallows his pride, and continues walking down the street as one after another, the bulbs slowly flicker on and flood the narrow, ill-kept streets with light. 

The town glows under the street lamps and Fernando can only imagine how it will look once darkness has fallen completely and the moon adds its brightness to the townscape. Maybe it will make the colors sharper, make the town come alive, or maybe it will wash its vibrancy out even more—Fernando doesn’t know. He’s here though and that’s as good a reason as any to find out.

“Excuse me,” he asks, stopping an elderly lady who is carrying too many groceries with her. 

The lady turns to him and Fernando almost sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but the cloak of evening and a disguise so shoddily made but well-kept keeps it from turning into anything more. 

“Yes?” she answers warily, looking him up and down as though he is suspect. She isn’t an unkind old woman and Fernando doesn’t particularly blame her for being cautious.

“Which way to the town center?” he asks because, again, he’s never been here alone before.

The lady looks at him critically before shifting the grocery bags in her hands and pointing straight. Fernando notices her wince under the weight. 

“Keep going straight. It’s a ten minute walk.” 

Fernando nods before pausing. 

“Are you headed in that direction? Can I help you with your groceries?”

The lady looks at him warily for a moment before her face relaxes. 

“Just down the street, thank you.”

Fernando takes the bags from her, noticing how heavy they are although maybe that’s just because he’s never had to carry them for himself before. He gives her a slight smile, which she returns. They walk mostly in comfortable silence and Fernando considers speaking once or twice, but he has too much to say, so he says nothing at all. In return, the lady breathes in and out easily and she mostly seems grateful for the help, especially since she seems to be limping, as bent from old age as she is. 

He looks down the street as they approach her house and he can’t see the town center, not yet, although there’s a world of lights ahead, or so he imagines. He can almost hear the music from the streets, smell the foods he’s sampled but never really _had_. He feels, perhaps for the first time in a long time, completely free and the feeling is vitalizing, he can feel it in his fingertips. 

When he breathes out a sigh, it sounds like relief, but it’s mostly just him living and the lady taps him on his shoulder in response.

“We’re here,” she says, pointing to a small white house that’s squeezed in between two other houses that look quite similar. The stone is old, so old that the white itself is fading, and the slanted, triangular stone roofs are worn with weathering. Even in the growing darkness, though, Fernando can tell that the small yard and garden are well kept and it makes him wonder whether or not this old lady has a family, who they are, what they do, whether or not they’ll fall apart the day she leaves them.

It makes him realize, perhaps, that he misses his own family, that he misses who they used to be, that he never appreciated them when he had them and isn’t that always the case? But it also makes him realize how little he knows his people, how little he knows people in general and that, in particular, makes Fernando frown because when did he become this kind of person? 

“Thank you, young man,” the lady says as she pushes the small, rusting iron gate aside for them to pass through and they walk up the narrow sidewalk to her front door. 

Fernando breathes in and out through his nose, smelling greenery and a life that isn’t cultivated to be artificial, but that is natural, simple because it exists without being noticed. His eyes follow the old lady’s fragile hands as she slides her old key into the lock and quickly unlocks the door before hobbling inside. 

For a moment he isn’t sure if he’s meant to follow, but she opens the door wider and disappears through the hallway, so he supposes he is and so he steps over the threshold. 

The inside of the house itself is very much like the outside—barely noticeable. There are pictures and plants and wooden tables with character, but little else. He notices multiple pictures of young men and young women and a few of what looks like the lady with a man. It is, perhaps, the only sign that another human being once lived here with her. 

He wonders if she gets lonely, like he does.

“Just put them on the counter,” the lady says from the kitchen and Fernando follows her voice. 

What he finds is not just a kitchen, but a home. There are pots and pans strewn out on the kitchen counter, in the sink, on the stove, and a few of them have what seems to be half-cooked food in them. He smells the subtle, acrid smells of peppers, of turmeric, of cinnamon, accompanied by the sweeter smells of saffron and sugar. He doesn’t recognize everything, but there are vegetables cut on the counter and rice on the stove and chicken in the sink, so he thinks that maybe the lady was making paella earlier and then remembered that she had no one to share it with.

“Would you like something to eat, dear?” she asks as Fernando sets the groceries on the counter.

“No thank you, ma’am, I should be going,” Fernando says, smiling, although it’s a little bit of a lie. He _should_ be going, yes; he should not really be intruding. But a part of him wants to stay, a part of him wants to help the old lady finish her paella and sit down with her and taste a mother’s cooking and be wrapped in warmth and stories that he’s not sure where to find anywhere else these days. 

“At least have a drink before you go,” she says and Fernando knows that it’s futile and a bit rude to try and refuse. 

“Okay then,” he says and smiles again, more genuinely this time. 

The old lady gives him a quick pat on his shoulder before opening her refrigerator. She pulls out a bottle of milk. Fernando watches curiously as she pours the milk into a cup, adds a teaspoon of cinnamon, a tablespoon of honey, and mixes them together before sticking them in the microwave. As it warms, she turns to him.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” she asks him, looking at him sympathetically.

Fernando wants to shake his head and deny this—because he wasn’t always like this, because he can remember a time when he ran around, chasing Pipita, when he snickered without restraint into his hands while eavesdropping on David and Iker, when he teased Bojan just because they were brothers and told his younger brother stories of his best friends and of his tutorial sessios and of all sorts of knights tales that he made up on the spot. He can remember being that other person, but lately he seems to have forgotten who he was. Lately, even Olalla can’t seem to find that boy she fell in love with. She never says it, but he can almost taste it on her lips.

“I just need to find the right things to say,” he answers and then frowns because that’s not what he meant to say either.

“Sometimes you just need to say what’s on your mind,” the old lady answers and it’s so wise that Fernando has a hard time wrapping his mind around it. Luckily, he doesn’t have long to try because the microwave beeps that his drink is done.

“Here you go,” she says, smiling, as she hands him the warm mug. Fernando takes it gratefully and he’s not sure, exactly, what he’s drinking, only that when he does he feels the hot warmth of tenderness and home slip past his aching throat and into his empty stomach. He feels himself warm up, the heat rising to his cheeks and he thinks, for the first time in days, that maybe he remembers what being happy feels like.

 

Fernando thanks the woman for his drink and she gives him a motherly hug—he closes his eyes for just a moment, lets himself remember another woman who used to hug him this way—before they are both at the doorway again.

He turns and is walking down the pathway again when the old lady speaks.

“Little prince,” she calls and Fernando freezes. “Sometimes it’s not what you’re looking for, but what you find.”

Fernando turns back to her and gives her a confused look, but she just shakes her head and waves.

As he finds the sidewalk again toward the town center, he’s still not sure what she meant.

 

The warm drink has revitalized him in much the same way the moving air around him has and Fernando is happier as his feet find the way to where he’s going. The town center isn’t completely what he was expecting—somehow, in his mind, he had imagined that the center would be the nucleus of all life. He had expected to find music spilling from every corner, lights making each shop front glow, art and humans and words and the smells of food changing the atmosphere until it was a scene in a movie—that one scene, where everyone gathers under the guise of night and music and stepping into it is losing yourself to an entirely different kind of romance.

It isn’t though. It’s nothing like Fernando had imagined, although that’s not necessarily a bad thing. There are really no street performers or crowds gathered around a single person with too much talent to contain to himself. The shop doors aren’t held wide open for the passerby and lights aren’t strung across the town square. Instead, it’s quieter and more contained, although there’s still that thrum of life he has been looking for. He can see families eating together through restaurant windows and couples stopped at corners under street lamps to give and take that one kiss that will start the night for them. Maybe it’s not exactly what he imagined it to be, but the world rarely is, so he starts humming a little bit, a pleasant smile on his face as he passes brightly lit stores and looks inside just for a glimpse of what he might find. 

“Mama, I want ice cream!” a little girl tugs on her mother’s sleeve in front of him. The mother looks exhausted and Fernando is certain that she will say no, that she will be as stern as he remembers his nanny was, but instead, her face melts into a smile and she nods, taking her little girl’s hands in her own. 

“Sure. Then we’re going to visit papa at work, okay?” 

“Ice cream ice cream!” the little girl squeals and pulls her mother forward. The mother laughs, even as tired as she is, and Fernando’s heart is lighter for it. 

_Maybe I’ll get some ice cream_ , he muses with his hands in his pockets and he even turns toward the ice cream shop when a group stumbles out of a bar a few feet ahead of him.

“Let’s go dancing,” a young man in tight jeans and a worn leather jacket says, leaning into a taller man with tan skin. 

The taller man mutters something and the entire group lights up in laughter. Fernando presses 

“That was only once!” the young man protests and when the taller man pulls away, he goes stumbling forward and nearly falls until a petite young woman with blonde hair catches him under his arm and straightens him. 

“Let’s not make it twice,” she says, frowning. “I can’t get caught again, my dad will _kill_ me.” 

The young man pouts before throwing his arms around her. 

“Mariaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I love yooooooooooooooou.” 

The woman—Maria, apparently—makes a disgusted face and appeals to the taller man who’s snickering into the shoulder of another young woman wearing entirely too much glitter. 

“Come on, Ferdinand, off Maria, come on—yep,” he says and takes Ferdinand’s arm and slings it around his shoulder. “Next weekend.”

“Why next weekend?” Ferdinand pouts as he shifts focus from Maria to his friend. 

“No money,” his friend says and, for the first time, Fernando can detect a dark, biting edge to his words.

Ferdinand looks up at his friend curiously.

“I lost my job,” his friend exhales in frustration. A silent ripple goes through the group and Fernando can see that most of them have tensed. 

“But your parents—” Ferdinand begins nervously.

“Yeah, I know. They can’t help,” the man says and pushes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how, but—I don’t know guys, I’ll come up with the money. I promise.”

There’s a murmur through the group and a few hands pat the tall man on the back. 

“There are no fucking jobs out there,” he bursts out angrily after Maria whispers something close to him. “Those fucking royal pricks sit their on their gilded thrones and eat up what money there is with fucking flashy parties and vacations in the Alps and what do we have to show for it? Fucking nothing. My parents can’t even afford health insurance and they buy a fucking jet plane whenever they’re bored.”

The outburst is so violent and unexpected that Fernando is taken aback for a moment. He feels a pang run through his stomach and he’s not sure whether it’s guilt or anger, but either way he presses even closer, hoping the man has more to say. 

He does. 

“No, _no_ ,” he says, shaking his head emphatically at something Ferdinand has slurred that Fernando missed. “I’m not being a careless asshole, I know they lost their parents I just—goddamnit.” He sighs in frustration and shakes off Ferdinand’s attempts to massage calm into his shoulders. “They’re not the only ones with parents. This country’s going to shit because they’re too busy throwing royal fucking balls to fix the economy. I’m tired of watching my parents struggle. At least I could help them when I worked, but now I can’t even do that. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I don’t know what _I’m_ going to do.”

There are a few more seconds of angry muttering before Fernando lets the group pull ahead of him. Truthfully, he feels a little nauseous. His parents have just died, his brother has just been coroneted, and he’s never heard anyone burst out so passionately against the royal family. It makes his stomach twist, knowing what David has to deal with, although he wonders whether David himself knows it or not.

Fernando is rattled as he moves forward, ice cream forgotten. It’s not as though he doesn’t know there will always be some opposition to the royal family or the monarchy—he’s taken tutorials on the government and on political history and he’s certainly not naïve. But he’s also never heard it directly, never seen it manifest in someone who is probably his age or just barely older. He shuffles past a nice store dedicated to antique furniture and two or three closed, abandoned shops before he decides he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts anymore and ducks into a pub. 

 

The pub atmosphere is relaxed, despite the apparently crashing economy. There are a variety of age ranges, with the older customers gathered at tables near the back, talking lowly over their beers, and the younger men and women either pressed against the bar or at the tables gathered around the stage area. Fernando doesn’t immediately see who’s playing, although he can hear the frenetic thrums of flamenco. He pushes past a few young women who are eying a few young men near the front to the bar. 

“Just a minute!” the bartender calls to him as he sees him and Fernando smiles a little, looking over the list of drinks offered here.

He hears the man joke and laugh loudly and the throng of men and women press even closer to the bar until he shoos them away.

“Go listen to the act, stop bothering me here, some of us have bills to pay!” 

The crowd looks mostly disappointed and it’s only when they pull away and Fernando has a chance to glance more clearly at the bald man that he sees why. He’s clearly not an old man or even middle-aged; he’s just at that age where the smooth, sloping lines of his forehead and large eyes and easy smile are more than enough to make him attractive.

“If you want my autograph, it’ll be extra,” he jokes as he wipes down a glass. 

Fernando smiles and shakes his head.

“Are they always like that?”

“Mostly. I can never tell if they want me for my drinks or for my devilish good looks,” the bartender says, grinning. “Care to shed a light?”

Fernando considers it before returning the grin.

“The drinks, definitely.”

“Ouch, a man after my own liquor cabinet,” he says, booming with laughter. Fernando can’t help but widen his grin, that’s how easy this man is to talk to. He vaguely notices the previous crowd looking over and glaring at him, but he shrugs it off. “So, know what you want?”

“A Carlsberg,” Fernando says as he leans against the counter. 

“Not a bad choice,” the bartender approves and begins quick work of grabbing a clean glass and the correct tap. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Got a name?”

“F—Nando,” Fernando says as he digs through his jeans pocket for some change. It’s not something he usually has to deal with, but that’s not to say he doesn’t have any—especially considering he’s a numismatic, but that’s not something he shares with just anybody. 

“Pepe,” the bartender says and briefly reaches over so that Fernando can shake his hand. The grip is warm and firm, just like Pepe looks. “It’s my pub. If you have any complaints, just look for the bald one and I’ll fix it quick.”

“Your pub?” Fernando muses and he slides over the appropriate coins as Pepe exchanges it for the beer. “You’re a bit young to own your own, aren’t you?”

“Point,” Pepe concedes and deposits the coins into his register. “It was my dad’s. Well we’ve had it in our family for decades, actually. Padre wanted me to get a real education, get a real job.”

“But?” 

“But who has the money for that, right? Especially with the entire market being shit right now. The loans didn’t go through and he got sick, so here I am. I don’t mind so much—” As he says this, a loud crash sounds from the other side of the room. The light thrum of the flamenco music is interrupted and Pepe looks across, glaring. “Except for when _that_ happens—excuse me for a sec, Nando. _If you’ve broken another pitcher, I swear to God_!”

Fernando look over to the area near the stage where a group of girls have their hands clapped over their mouths and a group of guys are jostling against each other and laughing obnoxiously at a young man who’s scrambling to clean up before Pepe—who is already yelling as he strides over—gets to him. 

Amidst the commotion, the flamenco music has stopped. Fernando leans back against the counter, that familiar churning feeling back in his stomach. He grips his beer hard as he takes a long drink from it and he wonders if there’s anything he can do—anything at all—that could help, but he’s not the king and he doubts he ever will be. Although now he’s in a position where he _might_ be, one day, if only because he’s not third in line, but second. But that’s in the distant future and only if David doesn’t find himself a wife, which is highly unlikely considering the number of females who, Fernando knows, are dying to throw themselves into his bed. But, again, that _possibility_ is there. 

Everything is stressful. Fernando finds a headache beginning at his temples. He takes another long sip, trying to ease it. 

Fernando’s eyes are mostly focused on the tittering group of guys and girls near the stage now and Pepe, who is threatening to kick them out because apparently a pitcher has broken and there’s now beer absolutely everywhere—his bald head has turned red; he’s practically livid. It’s strangely entertaining. 

It’s as he’s watching the scene that he notices someone slip passed the crowd. It takes him just a moment to figure out who it is, but when he does, he tries to find the man’s body. The stage is now empty and Fernando spies the flamenco player struggling past a knot of women who are eying him hungrily. They keep pressing against him and he seems to be trying to offer them an explanation and push past, but they won’t let him. 

Fernando isn’t sure why, but he sets his beer on the counter and finds himself moving toward the young man. 

“Estevan!” he calls. The crowd and the young man don’t seem to hear him. “ _Estevan_ over here! I’ve saved you a seat!” 

This time, the girls and the young man look up. The young man looks confused until he locks eyes with Fernando. Fernando gives him a meaningful look and a responding look of relief washes over the player’s face. 

“Manuel! Sorry ladies, I’m meeting a friend,” he says, shaking some of them off and Fernando reaches forward to grasp his upper arm. He pulls the player out of the group, slinking an arm around his shoulder as though they’ve been the closest of friends all of their lives. 

As they shake off the crowd of disappointed and surly women, “Estevan” whispers gratefully into Fernando’s ear. “Thanks man, I really owe you one.” 

“You looked like you needed saving,” Fernando replies quietly, smiling, and they only unlock shoulders when they reach the bar.

“Hold on, my drink’s behind the counter,” the player says, grinning and he disappears around the opening in the corner before Fernando can think to wonder why he would be allowed back there in the first place.

He shrugs and finds his own beer and reclaims his seat at the bar. 

A minute later, the flamenco player reappears with a glass of beer and takes the seat next to Fernando. 

“No seriously, you saved me out there. They’re crazier tonight than usual,” he says, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“Do you usually play here?” Fernando asks, taking a much-needed drink of his beer.

“On Thursday nights,” he says, nodding. “Or when I need the cash. Pepe doesn’t have much, but he’s always willing to give me a chance. Cheers to that man.”

He raises his glass at the bartender, who’s now grumbling and wiping up the mess on the floor. Fernando raises his glass as well and they both drink at the same time. 

“So, I haven’t seen you around here before,” the flamenco player comments. 

“So I keep hearing,” Fernando replies, amused. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to those of us who Pepe keeps hostage,” the other man replies, grinning. It’s only when he does that Fernando notices how nice the smile is. It’s large in the way that Pepe’s is, but less contained, less hidden—it’s unrestrained and vibrant and, for some reason, makes Fernando’s chest ache a little. 

The rest of the young man is just as distinct—large, brown eyes, a strongly cruved nose that looks like it’s been recently smoothed over, long, brown hair that’s swept into a ponytail at the back of his head, all centered around skin that’s so honey-colored that Fernando can almost taste its sweetness. He can see tattoos peeking out from the underside of his arms and a particular sleeve tattoo that refuses to be hidden by any form of cloth. His clothes are just wrinkled enough to be casual, but nice enough that there are buttons. There are a few strategically positioned ones near the top that have been left unbuttoned, casually, calculatedly; as though the player knew exactly who would be looking there and why. He’s dangerous and completely exotic—completely unlike anything or anyone the prince has ever seen before. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s been staring until the other man shifts in his chair and reaches forward to push Fernando’s hood off his head. 

Fernando’s reaction is automatic—he clamps his hands to his hair, his heart beat increasing threefold, as though he’s been caught doing something he was never supposed to do. 

“And I would remember if I had seen that hair before is what I was _going_ to say,” the flamenco player says, although it’s with a bit of a frown this time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, sorry, reflex,” Fernando mutters and nervously smoothes his hair over. He glances quickly around the bar, but nobody seems to recognize him so he relaxes a little and turns back to his drink and to the player. “Sorry.”

“Hiding from the royal guard?” the player jokes, seeming relaxed himself again, although Fernando thinks he can still see a suspicion in his eyes. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Fernando jokes back, although he doesn’t really feel the mirth in the words. Probably because there is none. Instead, he drowns them out with beer. 

“Well, Princess Jasmine, I’m Aladdin,” the flamenco player grins and raises his glass toward Fernando. “But you can call me Sergio.”

Fernando has just a moment to blink in surprise—and wonder, for the hundredth time tonight, why _he_ is Princess Jasmine—before he laughs and clinks his glass with Sergio’s.

“Nando. And I don’t get on just anybody’s magic carpet.”

Sergio leans closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“I’m not just anyone, Nando. And I’m willing to help you find a whole new world.”

Fernando pauses then and Sergio does too. 

Then they both dissolve into snickers over their glasses of alcohol.


	4. Sergio; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _III. Sergio; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 7,172  
>  **Chapter Ships:** pre-Fernando/Sergio  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**III. Sergio**   
_or time will waste you_   


Sergio doesn’t really follow routines. When Xabi asks him why he doesn’t set a decent schedule for himself, his replies are usually along the lines of _If I wanted a fucking schedule, I would have stayed in school and become a doctor_. Xabi’s response is usually to roll his eyes and ignore the younger man, but Sergio insists that _this_ is the main point. It’s not that he was never intelligent or never had the attention span for textbooks and essays, simply that—much to his parents’ dismay—he had never found any reason for them. Sergio’s life philosophy—developed around the time he was ten years old and decided he was going to dress the way he wanted, eat the things he wanted, and never going to cut his hair again—is that _there are plenty of people wasting their lives for things they don’t love or believe in, so let them do that and I’ll be sane and do whatever the fuck I want_. Sergio had, perhaps, always been precocious, stubborn, and entirely too much of a free spirit. 

 

His parents had eventually given up. It was his 17th birthday and they had sat down to a family dinner after he had spent the entire day roaming the streets of the city with his borderline-vagabond friends. His father had stared into his eyes, over the top of a nice cake, and asked him the question that had been seventeen years in the making.

“What are you going to do with your life, Sergio?” 

Sergio had stopped around a mouthful of cake, looked nervously from his brother to his mother, and swallowed defiantly.

“I’m going to be a flamenco player.” 

The silence that had followed his declaration had been tense—disbelief mixed with indignation and just a hint of trepidation. Then his brother and his mother had broken into laughter and his father had thrown up his hands.

“Ay dios mio, I give up!”

Sergio had grinned and washed down his cake with sangria and the ease of tension and the moment itself was only eclipsed when he opened his present from his parents an hour later. 

Sitting down on the living room floor, he reached up as his father passed him a large present wrapped in ridiculously multi-colored, patterned paper.

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re going to be a musician, then,” his father had said gruffly, with a teasing smile.

Sergio had only had a few moments to wonder what his father looked so mysterious about before he tore open the paper. His fingers faltered as the panel appeared and his quickly widening eyes were accompanied by a gasp. A beautiful, deep brown cedar guitar with mahogany back lay on his lap—smooth to his touch, with a sheen that his father’s old guitar, his sole inheritance by force, never had. It was new, newer than anything he had ever touched, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Sergio could breathe in the smell of the strings, the rich smell of the wood, and his hands were trembling enough that he could barely bring himself to strum it.

“But how did you—” he looked up to ask, but his father and mother shook their heads.

“Don’t worry about it. Just make us proud,” his mother had said, smiling, and Sergio had laid his precious guitar to the side before leaping up and throwing his arms around them both. His brother had stared uncertainly from the corner before Sergio had reached out and pulled him in. 

 

He rolls out of bed in his tiny, cramped apartment, squinting out of his window to gauge what time it is. From the position of the sun in the sky, he decides that it’s probably time to wake up, although that assumption is relatively subjective because he’s pretty sure that he crawled into bed about three hours ago. He doesn’t have a headache, which is good, and he’s still wearing clothes, which is (probably) good, and he’s only hungry enough to eat a small elephant, so relatively speaking, it’s a decent start to his day. 

Sergio stretches and stumbles to the bathroom to wash up and he briefly wonders if he has enough money to buy shampoo this week, because his hair looks limp and slightly matted and it’s a tragedy because, once upon a time, he had taken such pride in it. He runs a comb through it, brushing out all of the snags and tangles, brushes his teeth, and squints into the dirty mirror to rub at the dark circles under his eyes.

“So fucking attractive these days, Ramos,” he mutters to himself. He thinks his face looks even haggard than normal; that painful kind of thinness that isn’t intentional, but a creation of circumstance. He shakes his head and sighs before ducking out of the bathroom and finding a rumpled shirt and torn jeans to pull on. He makes quick work of it even though, technically, he could sleep in if he really wanted to. But money doesn’t simply appear and he has to work hard for the bare living he’s chosen for himself. He slings his guitar across his back—it no longer has that sheen or the brand new smell, but it’s still his baby, his beauty, his treasure—and walks out of his apartment. He doesn’t bother to lock it because, honestly, there’s nothing in there to steal.

 

Sergio considers starting his day—although, judging from the sun it’s early afternoon at best—at the corner of the park, strumming for the children. He doesn’t usually make much money from it, but the kids love it and he loves playing for them. There’s a little girl—Daniela—who always sits down right next to him and requests song after song and sometimes sings with him when she’s not dancing to the music with one of her little friends. Her mother usually watches carefully from nearby, but she’s spoken with Sergio enough to know that he’s not a threat. Sometimes, Daniela asks him to teach her how to play and it’s perhaps the most touching, heartwarming experience, to sit there on the grass and teach a four year old how to play flamenco on the guitar. It’s on those days that he forgets how hungry he is and remembers how much he loves and lives for the music he plays.

A few steps toward the park, though, and he realizes that he’s absolutely _starving_. His stomach starts growling almost embarrassingly loudly and he falters because his legs seem heavier than usual. At least, they’re harder to life than usual. Sergio frowns. He tries to remember the last time he ate and he vaguely remembers half a bagel around noon the day before, but then he had had no time and, indeed, no money to get anything else. 

He turns out his pockets and finds a solitary peso, which will, maybe, get him a stick of gum. That has already been chewed by a hobo. He tries not to look or feel too pathetic, but it’s hard when his stomach is threatening to eat itself. 

“Pepe,” he says to himself hopefully and pushes past a group of school-aged girls, hoping that the bartender will be at his pub early today. 

 

Sergio finds himself knocking on the door to the pub in the thick heat of the early afternoon. He breathes a little heavier than usual, sweating, and shifts on his feet. Knocks again. His fingers are already itching to play, but his stomach is threatening a rebellion, so he really really hopes that Pepe will be there. 

“Come on Pepe, come on,” he says and knocks on the door a little louder. 

There’s an unintelligible shout inside and Sergio grins as he hears shuffling and scraping and a minute later, he finds himself face-to-face with the bald bartender.

“What the fu—oh. Serge.” Pepe looks confused and scratches his head. “A little early for you isn’t it?”

Sergio tries to look as pathetic as possible.

“Feed me?” he asks, looking up through his eyelashes. 

Pepe stares at him and breathes out a sigh, but mostly he just laughs and shakes his head. 

“Only if you clean up tonight after your act.”

“Deal!” Sergio agrees and gratefully shuffles past the doorway inside. 

 

It turns out that Pepe had been eating lunch to begin with, so Sergio gratefully accepts a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread.

“Want something to drink?” the bartender asks and Sergio nods brightly. 

“A beer?” 

“You’re lucky it’s cheaper than water,” Pepe chuckles and gets two glasses out. 

“And that you like me,” Sergio grins as he takes a steaming mouthful of stew. “Fuc—oh my fucking god this is heavenly, thank you King Pepe.”

“You have been promising me homemade empanadas for a year now, asshole, when are you delivering?” Pepe asks and slides the beer over to Sergio. Sergio picks it up and lifts it in toast before taking a long sip. 

“As soon as I have money to buy the ingredients.”

That makes Pepe frown and lean against the counter. He breaks off a loaf of his bread and shoving it into his mouth. 

“Running low again?”

“I think I’ve run out of shampoo,” Sergio says, making a face. “My hair’s disgusting.” 

“I’d lend you some, but—” Pepe grins and rubs his bald head, winking. Sergio has to laugh in response.

“Maybe I’ll just shave off my hair.”

“Maybe one day I’ll stop being this goddamn attractive,” Pepe snorts and tips back his glass. “Doubtful.”

“So it’s possible,” Sergio snickers and ducks his head when Pepe swipes at him. He goes back to shoveling stew in his mouth and the food feels so good in his stomach that it nearly aches. 

“What’s the plan today, Serge?” Pepe asks. 

“I should probably go down to the District, but I kind of just want to play at the park,” Sergio says, shifting on his stool. He tears off a piece of his bread and pops it into his mouth.

“You won’t make any money that way,” Pepe frowns.

“Yeah, well,” Sergio shrugs. “I miss the kids. It’s been a week.”

“And you haven’t made enough to buy shampoo since then?”

“I mean I did. It was, I dunno. Rent week.” 

“You pay so much for that shit apartment of yours, Ramos,” Pepe says, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just live with Xabi? He’s offered how many times now?”

“I don’t want to bother him,” Sergio says, shrugging. 

“But he’s—”

“I know, Pepe,” Sergio looks up, a little annoyed. “But he has his own life and I manage. I’m not that fucking person.”

“You’re so goddamn stubborn,” Pepe exhales, throwing up his hands. It’s a common gesture to Sergio, if only because most people in his life end up doing it at some point or another. It usually means that he’s won, that he has, once again succeeded in taking care of himself, succeeded in not accepting help from anyone. Sergio thinks that maybe he should feel pleased, but mostly he just feels a little sad. 

“Where’s that girlfriend of yours?”

Sergio blinks into the remnants of his stew.

“Which one?”

“Elizabeth? Elisabetta? Betty Ann?” 

“Elisabeth,” Sergio corrects and then goes back to shrugging. “We broke up ages ago.”

“Why?”

“Don’t have time,” he says and finishes his stew and bread. He pats his stomach with a content sigh before grabbing his beer and grinning. “And she needed someone who had money to actually take her out on dates.”

“I’m almost offended she didn’t think _El Léon y la Corona_ was the most romantic place on the entire fucking planet.”

“I tried to tell her,” Sergio says, solemnly. “Really I broke up with her for your dignity, man. I couldn’t let an insult like that stand.” 

“You’re so full of it, Ramos,” Pepe chuckles. “But that’s why I keep you around, so cheers!” 

“Cheers!” Sergio grins and clinks glasses with Pepe and tries to hurry down his beer. It’s not the tastiest way to top off his meal, but he’s on a limited amount of time.

He hops off the stool, making sure his guitar is still strapped safely to his back.

“Thanks, hombre. When do you want me tonight?”

“Seven sound good? If you want to come by an hour earlier and help with some cleaning, you could probably earn yourself another meal.”

“ _Fuck yes_ ,” Sergio says so enthusiastically that Pepe starts laughing again. “Whatever, man, I will take what I can get. Even if it’s hard.”

“That’s what she—”

“I will fucking kill you Reina, I swear to god.” 

Pepe is roaring with laughter as Sergio leaves the pub, trying to hold his ground and not join in.

 

He stretches a little as he ducks out Pepe’s building, the hot afternoon sun hitting him directly again. Sergio winces, not because he’s unused to it, but because the heat is already so thick that he can feel it settling heavily on his skin, sinking into it until he’s almost immediately sticky. He takes in a shaky breath of hot air and readjusts his shirt so that his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and a few buttons are let loose near the top. It has nothing to do with how it looks and everything to do with wanting some respite from the Spanish sun. He nearly wheezes as his guitar straps pull against his arms, but this is what he has chosen, so he perseveres. 

He does want to go to the park, _does_ want to visit Daniela and her friends, but he also knows that he’s going to need to find some money for food this week. Pepe can only exchange work for food for so long before Sergio becomes a new-age kind of freeloader. So, instead, he walks past colorful buildings with slanted roofs and white houses with arched doorways until he’s past the immediate center of the town and walking towards the District. 

The District is the informal and, frankly, politer way to refer to the financial district—the one area of town dedicated to the people Sergio hates the most. There are always more and more businessmen coming in and out of those grey, colorless glass buildings, in their stiff jackets and noses held high. The entire area smells of glass, polish, and the suffocating grease of cars, instead of the spices and woods and actual humans that he associates with the town he actually loves. Everything about the district makes Sergio cringe, but there _is_ that one undeniable appeal—hundreds of somber, bored, melancholy workers with pockets full of loose change walk through the area every day. 

Sergio had discovered ages ago that although most of the businessmen look at him with the kind of disdain that they only reserve for the poor and homeless—clear and obvious drains and burdens on society, every last one of them—many of the younger workers, the newer employees, the women with stress written across their brows, the young men who were too young—who were only there because they needed a way to pay the loans that were threatening to choke them—were willing to stop, even for a moment, on the way back to their bleak lives to listen to the smooth thrumming of flamenco and Sergio’s throaty accompaniment. He made more money here than in most other places, except maybe the town square during festival season. 

He slides the guitar straps off his back as he reaches his usual location—in front of a large glass bank firm that has a tightly contained garden amidst a concrete island. The island offers a jutted out resting area where he can lean against while he plays.

He smiles at a few of the men and women passing him by—none of whom even return it with a friendly gaze—and kneels on the concrete to open his guitar case. He carefully takes his treasure out and sets the case a few feet to the side of him for anyone so inclined to help. Sergio slides the strap of his guitar around his neck and settles it in front of him, fixing the tuning just so. When it sounds exactly the way he’s used to, exactly the way his own internal rhythm is synchronized to, he hops up on the concrete of the island and crosses one leg over the other so that he can rest the guitar on one knee. 

He starts out slowly at first, picking at the strings as though he’s just getting the feel for them, as though each vibration is slowly working its way from his fingertips, through his hands and his arms and his chest to a core where the music is so tightly wrapped that it has a hard time distinguishing itself from his heart. Maybe there’s no difference at all. He smiles a little at the twang of the guitar and taps the beat he’s playing out on the side, drums into it with his feet, as the music picks up and his head begins to nod. When Sergio plays, it’s not just one part of him, it’s his entire body, his entire being, and the flamenco wraps itself around him familiarly, like a child coming home, like a paintbrush to a canvas, like a young girl in her first love’s arms, until they are together, until they are one and the same. 

It’s not noticeable at first. At first he is always just another flamenco player, another man who has decided to forego commonsense and security for something as fleeting as music. Then one person stops, because they can see him, or maybe they can’t see him at all. Then another person stops because there’s a quality to him, an extra bronze to his skin, an extra sheen to the soft brown hair that falls free down his back. Then two more people stop, because it’s not music they hear, it’s an entire way of living; one they can almost taste, just by standing here, but they can’t see very far into, but wish they could. One person drops in a coin and then another does and maybe that’s enough to feed Sergio for the day, but he rarely notices at that point. At that point, he draws in the air and breathes out music.

 

When he finally resurfaces, the sun looks hesitant in the sky. It seems to want to dip below the horizon, but it’s just in that position where it hasn’t confirmed it yet, although it’s certainly considered it. Sergio blinks and wipes a layer of sweat off his brow, suddenly notices how parched he is. He shakes out from his position, stretching a little, and gives a young girl watching him a smile before finally taking his guitar off from his back.

He peers into the case and he can, thankfully, see numerous coins and quite a few rolls of bills. It’s more than he’s made in a while, but then, he’s been playing for hours without noticing so maybe it’s a skewed observation. Sergio bends down beside his case, humming to himself, and scoops out the money before placing it in a clear plastic bag and shoving it into his pocket. He then puts his guitar back in its case and stands up, sliding it back onto his back.

“I could use a nap,” Sergio says to no one in particular and he yawns as though just to prove that he’s not just saying he needs one just because he can. It’s only when he briefly considers buying a drink on his way home that he remembers Pepe’s offer. “Shit shit shit!”

He’s not sure if he’s late, but knowing him, he probably is so Sergio bounds quickly down the concrete square and disappears up into town again.

 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m late, it won’t happen again, etcetera etcetera,” Sergio wheezes as he bursts into the pub. He’s a bit loud and a few of the patrons eating and drinking inside look up at him, bewildered. 

Pepe glowers a bit from where he’s wiping down the table.

“Yeah you are and stop scaring my customers! Go behind the counter and get yourself a mop and make yourself useful, Jesus Cristo!”

Sergio mumbles an apology, but weaves his way through the tables. He sets his guitar on the stage before finding his way behind the counter and looking for a mop.

He can’t find one.

“Oy, King Reina, your royal highness, where’s the mop?” Sergio yells across the room with a grin, because he knows Pepe will turn red and yell back.

Sure enough, he does.

“I’m going to kick your ass from here to the broom closet and back, gitano!” he yells and a couple of the patrons look torn between amusement and fear.

“Aye aye, my King!” Sergio bows and disappears into the broom closet. When he comes out of it, he’s struck by a sudden thought and snickers.

How appropriate.

 

The early evening is mostly spent scrubbing at the old wooden floorboards and mopping under customers’ feet as they track dirt across the entire room just as soon as Sergio has cleaned it. He makes faces behind their backs and Pepe only catches him a handful of times. Instead of reprimanding him, he makes sure to keep a running commentary through facial expressions. 

Sergio snickers into his mop handle as Pepe serves beer to a particularly rowdy group of college students. The girls are hanging onto his every word, an astonishing among of cleavage and leg flashing toward a bartender who is clearly so uninterested that it gives the young men who are pressed in close against them the faint glimmer of hope that they might still have a chance. The girls are too giggly, flashing white teeth and flipping hair across their shoulders, to pay attention to them until Pepe shoos the entire group away toward the stage. 

He gives Sergio a desperate look, clearly begging him for help.

“Aye aye, my King!” Sergio grins, bowing again and setting the mop against the wall. 

“Help yourself to whatever you want during your break!” Pepe calls back to him gratefully just before he’s ambushed by another group. Oh the curses of being so _devilishly charming_. Sergio snickers again.

He throws off his apron and readjusts his hair before pushing toward the stage area where his guitar is waiting for him. He breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers grasp the edge of the wood and his shoulders relax as he slips the straps across his shoulder again. He settles onto the stool and he knows that there are quite a few curious stares repositioning on him, but it doesn’t make him nervous. If anything, Sergio beams at them without looking and once he begins strumming, he’s at home. 

 

It’s through maybe the fourth or fifth song that Sergio happens to look up. It’s not really a conscious decision on his part and he would never say that it was fate. It’s simply the perfect lull between songs, the perfect pause in singing, and he looks up trying to cut through the haze of flamenco to see if maybe Pepe has been saved.

He might have been, but that’s not what Sergio notices. Instead, he sees a slight, unsure figure, wavering between studying the people he’s found himself surrounded by and actually approaching them. He has shocking blond hair that he’s trying to cover using a hoodie that does not quite fit his body, but still seems made for him. The boy (man?) shifts on his feet, looking unsure of how he came to be there in the first place.

Hm. 

Sergio quirks an eyebrow, but as soon as he does, there are three or four girls—and one or two guys, he notices—who press against the stage, requesting songs. He smiles at them politely, nods and returns his hands to his guitar. 

He continues playing simply because he has to, although he supposes that’s just as well because he doesn’t really think that the man at the bar is paying much attention to him. It’s not really disappointing, because Sergio doesn’t know a thing about him, but he does feel a tug of curiosity. His playing is distracted from then, his music not as fluid as it usually is although he doubts anyone notices but him. Sergio shakes his head, frowning, and decides he needs a break.

He’s just about to signal to Pepe when a loud crash startles him and the group in front dissolves into laughter and Pepe’s furious face appears almost immediately.

“As good a time as any,” Sergio grins to himself and slips off his guitar. He tries to quietly steal into the crowd, but, to his utter dismay, that same, insistent crowd mobs him almost immediately. 

“I’m sorry, I need to get to the bar,” he begins apologizing, the smile on his face strained because he thinks he might get eaten by one of these women at any moment. 

“Nooooooo,” one of the girls giggles and her friends titter in response. “Come on, play us another song!” 

“I will ladies, I promise, I just need a break,” Sergio offers. He thinks it comes off as good-natured, but mostly it’s desperate. There’s a reason he prefers men. Women scare him. 

“Just one more, just one—” a girl with long, dark hair begins and he jumps back a little because he’s pretty sure one of them just touched his ass. 

Sergio thinks he’ll probably die in this crowd of overeager young women—and he thinks, what a horrible way to go, he’s always imagined his death would come after he’s at least had the chance to eat one last bowl of his mother’s paella—when he hears a voice cut through the mumbling and giggling around him.

“ _Estevan_ over here! I’ve saved you a seat!” an unfamiliar voice calls. Sergio looks up, confused. He sees the young man he had been eying earlier and for a second he’s sure he’s misheard—who the fuck is Estevan?—but then his eyes lock with those large, brown ones. It’s unmistakable who the blond is talking to. He kind of looks like he’s repressing a smile. 

“Manuel! Sorry ladies, I’m meeting a friend,” Sergio says, limbs loose with relief. He manages to shake some of them off and he reaches for the blond man as he grasps at Sergio’s arm. Sergio’s heart is thudding from his close encounter with death as the “Manuel” throws an arm around him and as they push through the crowd, he thinks he might actually cry.

“Thanks man, I really owe you one,” Sergio mutters into the blond’s ear instead. 

“You looked like you needed saving,” the blond says simply. He’s smiling as though he knows something or maybe he’s just glad he wasn’t the one who needed saving. 

Sergio doesn’t care either way; he’ll happily sacrifice what dignity he has left so long as his knight-in-baggy-sweatshirt doesn’t leave him to fend for himself again.

 

 _Nando_ , the young man offers.  
 _Nando_ , Sergio thinks. He rolls the name around in his mind, tries to think of how it might taste on his tongue. It’s short. Different. Unique. He likes it, he decides.

As they settle into their seats at the bar, Sergio notices a few things. More things than he wishes to admit, to be honest. He notices, for instance, that Nando sits very straight and tall on his stool, almost as though he’s afraid to slouch. It’s in complete contradiction to what he’s wearing, to the smiles he’s giving Sergio, to the way he’s teasing, although he also seems reserved in a way that Sergio can’t quite put his finger on. 

He notices, for example, that Nando seems to try to hide his laughter, that he seems hesitant about sharing it, that he only offers it when Sergio says something particularly preposterous or when he thinks that Sergio isn’t paying attention to him. (Nando doesn’t seem to notice that Sergio is always paying attention to him.)

He notices, also, how Nando drums his fingers on his glass of beer, how he takes little sips and makes an occasional face that wrinkles his nose and the corner of his eyes, how he seems uncomfortable in his seat and keeps self-consciously running his fingers through his long hair.

He notices a cascade of freckles powdering a small nose and the highest, most sharply defined cheekbones he’s ever seen, notices how his cheeks dimple when he smiles, notices how whenever Nando speaks, it’s almost always with a slight tinge of pink absolutely everywhere. His shocking blond hair seems to upset his more subtle features, but in a way that makes Sergio want to lean forward and tug on it. 

When Nando cocks his head and quirks a smile at a joke he’s made, Sergio thinks he’s never seen someone so beautiful.

It’s going to be a problem, Sergio can already tell.

He feels self-conscious. He tugs on the ends of his own too-long hair and tries to lean into the bar to hide himself, completely aware of how wrinkled and out of style his clothes are. It’s not really his fault, but even Sergio Ramos is unsure of himself sometimes.

“….you didn’t,” Nando’s eyes are wide. He looks torn between disapproval and wanting to burst into laughter. 

“I mean the color washed away eventually,” Sergio grins, blowing a few loose strands of his hair out of his face. 

“Right before your interview?” 

“I did not want to go to preparatory school,” Sergio laughs, shaking his head. “They wore fucking uniforms. My brother wore one every single day and every time he walked out the door, I was kind of horrified.” 

Nando grins and tries to hide how wide it is in his beer. He doesn’t succeed. 

“And your parents were … okay with that?” Nando asks curiously. 

“Oh fuck no,” Sergio snorts. “God I got in so much trouble. But what could they do? The interviewer took one look at my hair and clothes and wrote me off, right from the very beginning. Refused to take my dad’s pleading calls.”

“Did you ever take the tests?” The other man leans back against the counter, elbows resting just beyond the edge. 

“Uhhh yeah, once or twice? My scores were fine,” Sergio says, shrugging. Then his face splits into a smile. “Well no. The first time it was fine. The second time I said fuck this and filled the bubbles in so that they looked like a palm tree.” 

Nando nearly chokes on his drink. Sergio’s grin widens.

“It was a fucking awesome palm tree. Personally I think I should have gotten extra points just for creativity, but creativity means nothing to those fuckers.” 

Nando shakes his head and it’s absolutely clear how incredibly amused he is. 

“So what, you just … stopped?” 

Sergio shrugs. 

“I mean I finished high school because I didn’t want to break my mom’s heart, but I sure as fuck wasn’t going to go to college. Left that to my brother.” Usually Sergio doesn’t feel the need to stress that he isn’t, actually, contrary to popular belief, a complete braindead idiot. He feels a little concerned right now though and thinks maybe he should force the point on Nando because the other man doesn’t know him well enough yet to come to that conclusion on his own. In the end, though, he doesn’t, just because it’s _school_ and Sergio’s never let the topic dictate his life. 

Instead, he settles back into his drink and looks at the blond with curious brown eyes. 

“What about you?” he asks, then adds. “Not that I give a fuck about school. But—you know. You haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

There’s a hesitant second during which Nando looks almost completely uncomfortable—kind of like he did when Sergio had impulsively pushed his hood back, in a desperate attempt to fully see that blond hair that had been teasing him by peeking through—but he smoothes his face over completely within seconds. It’s almost impressive. 

“Mostly I’ve had tutors,” Nando says. He shrugs as though this is the most natural thing in the world, although the shrug is almost too casual to actually be casual. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it that much? I mean it—” He hesitates here, looking for the words he wants. “—it was always expected of me, so I did it. I guess I never thought about whether I liked it or not.” 

Sergio nods wisely and takes a long sip of his beer. 

“I guess that’s most people though.” He smirks. “You need to be a special brand of crazy to do something else.”

Nando smiles at that, although Sergio notices that he looks a little sad. He has no idea why, although, again, curiosity tugs at his heart. 

“Yeah, I guess. It wasn’t bad or anything. I was pretty good at most of it. Really liked economics.” He wrinkles his face. “Hated science. Hate hate hated science.”

Sergio laughs loudly into his glass.

“Don’t we all?”

Nando nods in agreement. He tugs on the bottom of his hoodie, as though self-conscious that it might ride up, and shifts his legs. Sergio notices that he seems fidgety although, again, he can’t really tell why. He vaguely has the feeling that the more questions Nando answers, the more his body language shrouds his words in mystery. 

“When did you learn?” Nando asks abruptly and Sergio frowns, not knowing what he’s talking about.

“About what?” 

“To play like that.” 

“Oh,” Sergio says, surprised. He hadn’t even though that Nando had been listening when he was up on stage. He feels a little bubble of happiness at the pleasant realization that maybe he _was_ and he beams a little because of it. “My dad used to play. Not professionally or anything, but he loved flamenco, so on Sunday mornings I would always wake up to flamenco music and my mother cooking in the kitchen.”

Sergio looks down at his hands a little and it’s obvious how happy he is, obvious how fond of this particular memory he is. 

“She would, you know, be standing there, making torrijas or rolling churros and he would just be sitting in the living room playing. Sometimes he’d pause and they’d talk and she’d laugh a little, seem really really happy.” He smiles a little sheepishly, his own tan skin turning faintly pink just because the memory is intimate and he’s sharing it with someone he’s just met. “I mean I was, what, four? Five? So everything seemed really fucking magical, but I would just sit on the stairs and listen. I think I was six when I demanded he teach me.” 

He grins.

“Like literally, demanded. I walked up to him, put my hand on his and yelled at him until he laughed and settled me on his lap.”

Nando smiles throughout the story, his face softening every so often. Sergio’s so caught up in his own memories that he doesn’t notice how sad and withdrawn the blond seems to be getting. 

“So yeah,” Sergio laughs slightly, fingers drumming on his half empty glass. “He started teaching me and I got, well. I got really obsessed. I’d listen to his cassettes all the time and I would practice whenever I could. Skipped homework a whole fucking lot just so I could play. I dunno, I guess I really loved it. I can’t remember not loving it, you know?” 

Nando nods, although when Sergio looks up, he has the vague feeling the other man’s just doing it to appease him. He wants to frown, but it doesn’t settle anywhere near his lips. 

“I was always shit at music,” the blond exhales, shaking his head. “My mom thought for _years_ that I was the kid she could get to play the piano. She really had so much hope for me.” He smiles a little, sadly. “I hated practicing. And I was horrible. My younger brother was much better.”

“You have siblings?” Sergio asks eagerly, immediately interested. He presses closer without thinking.

“Yeah,” Nando blinks, seemingly startled.

“How many? What are they like? Are they older or younger? Who’s your favorite?”

Nando blinks in rapid succession and looks so confused that Sergio nearly chokes on his beer. He laughs heartily and claps Nando on the shoulder.

“Sorry, I have two brothers and I kind of love the shit out of them. I guess I got a little overenthusiastic.”

Nando shakes his head, his cheeks dimpling in response. Sergio finds it frustratingly endearing.

“Three. An older sister, an older brother, and a younger brother.” He seems to stop and consider the last question and when he answers, it’s a little bit guiltily. “My older brother. I guess we’re close?”

“You don’t seem very sure,” Sergio observes. 

“We’re not the typical family,” is all Nando says, although it’s with the hint of a wry smile, which makes Sergio think that there’s something he’s not sharing. The theme of the night, apparently.

“My dad let me skip college and become a street performer,” Sergio smirks, lifting his glass in toast. “That ship has sailed.”

“Fuck college,” Nando agrees and this time he bites back a smile that’s trying to come through. He colors slightly and it looks more like he’s trying not to giggle because he’s just said something bad or out of character for him. He clinks his glass against Sergio’s and they both drink to the statement in somberness. 

“Would you want to learn?” Sergio ask suddenly. 

Nando looks surprised. 

“To play?”

“No, to sky dive,” Sergio remarks instantly, rolling his eyes. When Nando’s raises an eyebrow, Sergio realizes that maybe he’s getting too comfortable with this man he’s just met. He lowers his gaze and gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Yeah, I meant to play.”

The blond chews on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, or at least that’s just what his body language is telling Sergio. His shoulders are hunched—just a little too tense—and his fingers are drumming on the counter a little too fast. Sergio can almost see worry (?) crease between his eyebrows and it makes him regret asking at all, although he’s not sure why.

“I mean—uh nevermind, sorry stupid question,” Sergio begins muttering, hotly embarrassed, when Nando shakes his head all of a sudden.

“No—I mean, yes. I mean no, it’s not a stupid question, yes I’d like to learn.”

Sergio’s eyes widen this time.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Nando giggles a little and he sounds nervous, but excited this time. “Yeah, why not? I bet you’d be a good teacher.”

“Oh I could teach you more than that,” Sergio grins, waggles his eyebrows, moves his face closer to Nando. 

Nando giggles again and turns an endearing shade of pink and Sergio bites back a laugh and as he withdraws, he thinks, briefly, that it’s not really a joke. 

 

They have another drink before Pepe realizes that there hasn’t been any music for ages and the crowd is getting restless again.

“Oy Ramos, get your ass to that stage, I’m not paying you to sit there and flirt!” He yells from the other end of the counter as he fills up someone’s glass of beer. 

“You’re not paying me at all!” Sergio yells back. 

There’s a pause.

“I’m not giving you free beer to sit and flirt, _get your ass to the stage_ and work those pretty little hands of yours!” 

Sergio sighs, but not before he’s choked out laughter. For his part, the blond next to him looks entirely amused. 

“Duty calls,” Sergio says apologetically, shrugging his shoulder. 

“Do you want to give me your number?” Nando asks shyly. He then turns pink before hurriedly adding, “I mean so I can tell you what time is good for lessons!”

“I—um,” Sergio says and looks embarrassed and uncomfortable for the first time. 

“Oh.” Nando looks disappointed and equally embarrassed.

“No! Fuck, no I didn’t mean it like that!” Sergio says quickly, knowing exactly what the other man is thinking for once. “I uh, don’t have a phone.” 

Nando stares.

Sergio fidgets and pulls on the end of his wrinkled shirt.

“Yeah, I uh, I mean—” He definitely turns pink this time, which is quite an accomplishment for the extremely tan young man. “I just, you know. Being a flamenco player, I just. Not very much—I mean money…”

He trails off uncomfortably, but Nando doesn’t seem to let that change his opinion.

“Oh. Well then, how about—” He frowns and turns to Pepe. “Hey! Do you have a pencil and paper?” 

Pepe immediately saddles over to the two of them.

“If it gets you two to stop making fucking eyes at each other and gives me my flamenco player back, then yes.”

Nando just smirks at him while Sergio colors and he takes the paper and pen from Pepe. 

“Here,” he says, too casually, as soon as he finishes writing down an address. “Is Saturday okay? Around noon?”

“Yeah, that should be fine,” Sergio says, beaming as he takes the sheet of paper. He subtly flicks Pepe off as the older man starts snickering to the side of them, although, thankfully, Nando doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Just uh. It might look intimidating,” Nando says, too-casually, and shrugs. “Just come in and tell them you know me and I’ll meet you in the, uh, yard.” 

Sergio gives him a confused look, but Nando shakes his head. 

“Just trust me on this one.”

“If you say so,” Sergio says and pockets the paper. He vaguely wonders whether or not Nando has gotten the hint and is just giving him a fake address where he will be ambushed by the royal guard. He snickers a little at the thought and shrugs when Nando raises his eyebrow in question. 

“Ramos. Stage. _Now_ ,” Pepe glares at him as he takes his pen back and shuffles down to take some more orders.

“Aye aye oh King my King!” Sergio grins, standing up and saluting Pepe. 

Nando gives him a strange look, but Sergio ignores it because he can barely read the other man at all and he’s already kind of tired of trying. 

“Noon on Saturday,” Sergio beams and sticks out his hand to the blond.

Nando smiles slowly, dimples gradually appearing again, and takes his hand. Sergio bites his lower lip and tries not to notice how warm or strangely soft the other man’s fingers feel against his own rough, calloused ones. 

“Okay,” Nando says, nodding.

Sergio suppresses a small sigh and turns toward the stage area again. By the time he reclaims his seat, straps his guitar against himself, strums a few bars, and casually looks up, the other young man is gone.


	5. Sergio; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _III. Sergio; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 5,127  
>  **Chapter Ships:** pre-Fernando/Sergio  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**III. Sergio**   
_or time will waste you_   


By the time Saturday arrives, Sergio has at least managed to make enough money to run some of his clothes through the wash and eat enough to not look _completely_ emaciated. It’s not necessarily that he’s primping himself for Nando or that he’s overly self-conscious just because he’s seeing the other man again; it’s almost a matter of pride. He has never been particularly put together or, certainly, sophisticated in his style, but before he had moved out, before he had begun his current lifestyle, he had at least maintained a degree of grooming that had made him very attractive and well-liked at school. Or so he thought—although sometimes he had the sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with the intimidation factor of his tattoos, but he liked to think that it was his superior sense of rebel style. 

He combs his freshly washed hair, tucks in the cross he wears around his neck—a present from his mother when he was young, although he had never been particularly religious—under his collared shirt, which has been unbuttoned just enough to seem casual. He rolls up his sleeves, tucks his thin wallet into his back pocket, carefully attaches his guitar case to his back, and leaves his apartment, feeling like he’s maybe chasing a unicorn that will turn out not to be there, but hoping that he had made enough of an impression on the other young man that he hadn’t given him a fake address. 

He’s not sure where he’s going at first and when he stops at a few stores to ask the owners to direct him, he becomes a little more than nervous when they _all_ give him strange looks. 

“Someone gave you this address?” an owner of a liquor store asks him.

“Yes,” Sergio says, licking his lips wet out of nervous habit. 

The owner just starts to laugh and Sergio leaves the store with a knot in his stomach that he just can’t get rid of. When he finally stops in at a small flower store near the edge of town, a tiny, elderly woman looks at him curiously. 

“You’re going to this address?”

“Yes.” 

The woman cocks her head.

“Someone gave you this address?”

Sergio thinks he’s probably going to vomit. 

“….yes?” 

“I’m curious,” the old woman says as she waters a particularly large and red plant in its pot. “Was it a man who gave this address to you?”

“…..yes.”

“Was he young?”

“….yes.”

“Did he have blond hair and too many freckles to count?”

Sergio has no idea how she could possibly know all of this.

“Yes, how—”

The old woman smiles and shakes her head. She leans forward and pats Sergio’s cheek.

“You’ll be good for him,” she says. Then she points out the door. “Just follow the street to the end. Turn right at the corner and keep walking until you hit the edge. It might take you a while. You’ll see a very large building. You’ll know the one.”

Sergio is, to put it frankly, bewildered. He thanks the old woman and leaves. As he turns out the door, he swears he hears her say “ _Say hello to the little prince for me!_ ”

That makes even less sense than her questions, though, so Sergio figures he’s heard her wrong.

 

It’s the palace. It’s the motherfucking goddamn palace. Sergio should have fucking figured that Nando was too nice, that he was smiling at him too much, that he had too readily given his _address_. He decides to fume for a minute, internally kicking himself for being stupid enough to fall for it.

“I’ll meet you at the yard,” Sergio mutters sarcastically, mocking the low timbre of the other young man’s voice. He looks at the veritable fortress in front of him and is slightly intimidated, but mostly just furious. “Yeah you’ll meet me at the fucking yard. You and your royal army of fucking douchebag knights.” 

His entire family absolutely loathes the royal family and Sergio hasn’t escaped from that particular environment uninfluenced. He hates the grandeur of the palace; how it’s so grandiose and carefully crafted and seems to be dripping with gold. He hates the spires, the large, ornate gate, the well-manicured and lush green lawn. He hates that there’s an equally large and disgustingly extravagant cathedral nestled into the side, inside the gates; as though the royal family should have the distinct privilege of hoarding religion all to themselves. Sergio has never been _that_ religious, but he’s pretty sure God doesn’t reside exclusively behind mammoth, gold-encrusted gates, all for the whims of a family who barely cares enough about their people to fix the fucking economy so that the rest of them could eat.

He vaguely thinks that, maybe though, as much as he hates the fucking Torres family, he hates Nando even more. He’s practically seeing red, he feels so stupid.

“Whatever, I’ll play his game,” he mutters to himself again just as he kicks the brick wall in front of him out of frustration. He marches around the corner and raps furiously on the front guard’s window.

“Is there something you want?” the guard asks distastefully as he opens his door. There’s judgment written all over his face and Sergio is pretty close to punching it in, just for kicks. 

“I’d like to see his _royal highness_ , Prince Nando,” he says venomously, as absolutely sarcastically as he possibly can.

The guard raises his eyebrows skeptically before a smirk draws on his features. 

“I bet you would, you filthy street rat,” he says in return and makes to close the door.

“Look, you fucking _asshole_ , some blond-haired, brown-eyed, freckle-faced prick told me to meet him here today for fucking _guitar lessons_. You don’t think I feel like enough of a moron without you being a _dick_ to me?”

He’s breathing so hard, he doesn’t notice the look of surprise on the guard’s face.

“What’s your name?”

“So _stop being the world’s douchiest_ \--” Sergio stops and blinks. “What?”

“What. Is. Your. Name.” The guard repeats this slowly, looking as though Sergio’s very existence is causing him pain.

“….Sergio Ramos.”

The guard quickly clicks on his mouse and scrolls through a list on his computer screen. He nods his head slightly and then clicks his mouse again.

“You’re early. He’ll meet you on the front lawn in ten minutes.”

Sergio blinks and is unable to say anything productive. 

The guard looks back up at him, that same look of distaste twisting his face. 

“Don’t go inside, don’t go anywhere else. If you do, there are sentinels positioned everywhere and they _will_ shoot.” He points various locations on top of the palace. Sergio follows his fingers with his eyes and vaguely makes out imposing figures who, he figures, are all glaring at him. He swallows hard and nods. 

“Right. Front lawn. Got it.”

He stands there for another minute, dumbfounded.

“ _Go_ ,” the guard says, annoyed. He puts in a combination and the towering gates creak backwards so that Sergio is left with no choice but to step through them. 

He kind of feels like a dead man walking, but he can’t imagine that the skinny, superbly freckled, and charmingly cute boy he met the other night will prove that much of a health hazard. Although he’s apparently a prince or some shit, so who really knows? 

Sergio laughs weakly to himself as he steps past the front gate and hears it grind shut behind him again.

“This is definitely retribution for not going to mass enough.” 

 

He nervously, and awkwardly, waits on the front lawn area for about five minutes, watching dozens of smartly and officially-dressed men and women entering and leaving the palace. They all look intimidatingly official and snobbish and busy with matters of the state that mere mortals—read: Sergio—would barely comprehend. He shifts on his feet about a dozen times and tries to smooth out his shirt about as many times as well, before he simply can’t handle the amount of nervous energy running through his body. 

The front guard’s warned him not to enter the building—so he _won’t_ \--but that’s not to say he didn’t promise to not uh, have a look around. The outside. 

He’s still a little intimidated by the enormous structure of the palace, so he finds himself walking toward the corner of the cathedral nestled up against the side. The two buildings would blend neatly into each other if the architecture weren’t completely different. It is almost as if the Visigoths, or maybe French architects obsessed with the Gothic style, had built the dark, ominous, sharp cathedral to purposefully contrast the white, sweeping arcs of the Muslim-era palace. Or maybe the Muslims had constructed their elegant homage to a religious so different from the cathedral’s and directly juxtaposed it next door on purpose; to prove a point that Sergio isn’t particularly sure of, if only because he _is_ pretty sure that he slept through that particular month in Iberian history.

Either way, the dark, towering structure offers a chilling alternative to its sister next door and Sergio shivers a little, wondering whether or not it’s symbolism that someone thought of and everyone else forgot.

Sergio shifts his guitar on his back and looks at the large spires of the cathedral. It’s definitely impressive, if nothing else, and there's a stirring in Sergio's heart, like he's forgotten what it means to be spiritual and only just remembered. It’s as his eyes rake up and down the gothic masterpiece that something even more interesting catches his attention to the side. He squints a little, unsure of whether or not he’s actually seeing what he’s seeing or if he’s just hallucinating out of pure, sheer willpower. It’s happened before.

He’s pretty sure the figure he sees isn’t a hallucination, though. He’s pretty sure that it’s reality and not a dream that the figure is sprawled out on the grass under a tree out front. 

The figure has short, dark hair, a skinny body, and arms that jut out in sharp angles from his body. Sergio’s face breaks out into a huge grin and he holds back laughter and sneaks up to where the figure is lying, making sure to be as quiet as humanly possible. 

When he gets to the figure, he sees that the boy's eyes are shut, which, to be honest, makes it that much more entertaining. Sergio kneels down quietly next to him and suddenly his hands dart out to grab the boy's shoulder.

The boy _shrieks_ and scrambles up. 

Sergio coalesces into a fit of laughter and giggles until the other boy, who has his hand over his heart and a look of pure terror on his face, realizes who it is. There isn’t even indignation on his face and Sergio is honestly given only a moment’s breath before the boy tackles him. 

"Sergio!"

"Jesus!" Sergio replies, still laughing, and he knows even before the smaller, older boy collides with him that he's been forgiven.

“Sergio! Sergio, what are you doing here?” Jesus laughs. He’s so giddy that Sergio can nearly feel the happiness rolling off of him in waves. The smaller boy beams and Sergio isn’t even let off the ground, Jesus just clings to his waist and gives him another hug.

“Jesus, I’m going to get grass stains on my back and how would I describe _that_ to his royal douchebag, Prince Nando?” Sergio laughs, although he’s already pressed about half a dozen little kisses to Jesus’s temple. 

“Oh!” Jesus says, turning beet red almost immediately. Sergio laughs again as Jesus eases himself to his feet and sticks out a hand for Sergio to take. Good to know that he is still as embarrassed as ever whenever Sergio even hints at sex. “Wait, did you say Prince Fernando?”

Sergio cocks his head at that, a light of realization coming into his eyes.

“Ohhhhhh that would explain the name,” he blinks, nodding. He refuses to think that he’s an idiot for not having put the two pieces of the puzzle together before. “Yeah actually in retrospect, he does look a lot like that smarmy asshole I used to see all over the papers when Paqui brought them home.”

“You didn’t answer me— _Sergio_ ,” Jesus admonishes.

Sergio grins sheepishly.

“Sorry. When _mama_ brought them home.” 

“Thank you,” Jesus says approvingly then nudges his friend. “Prince Fernando? Sergio? Explain?”

“Oh, right. His royal highness walked into Pepe’s bar the other night disguised as a mere mortal and heard me and said he wanted guitar lessons,” Sergio says, beaming.

Jesus looks sufficiently skeptical.

Sergio deflates a little.

“Okay, I offered them because he was cute. But he accepted!”

“Sese, he’s betrothed!” Jesus exclaims, his face shocked.

“I’m not going to sleep with him!” Sergio replies quickly. Then he quirks a mischievous grin. “Well I wouldn’t say no if he offered—”

“ _Sergio_!” 

Sergio laughs and wraps Jesus in another hug.

“God, I missed you, Jesu,” he says and presses a fond kiss into Jesus’s hair. “Is this where you’ve been hiding?”

“ _I_ haven’t been hiding anywhere,” Jesus says, voice muffled into Sergio’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around the taller man’s waist anyway. “You still don’t have a phone! And you never call Paqui, she worries so much.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sergio mutters. He feels a pang of guilt in his stomach, but quickly pushes that away. “I’ll call her soon.” 

Jesus pulls away and looks at him warily.

“It’s been _months_ , Sese.”

“I know.”

“At least three.”

“I know.”

“I call her every other night.”

Sergio tries to glare at Jesus, but ends up looking uncomfortable and guilty instead.

“I know, I know. I’m a horrible son. You’re a better one,” he mutters.

“You’re her real son, she wants to hear from you,” Jesus says, frowning.

This makes _Sergio_ frown and he shakes his head and hits the side of Jesus’s head lightly.

“You’re her real son too, shut up, stupid.”

That makes Jesus look a little happier even though he shakes his head. 

“Anyway, do you want to use my cell phone? You can call her now!” he brightens immediately at the prospect.

“One—no. Two—aren’t monks not supposed to have phones or technology, what kind of a church is this? And three—I have to meet His Royal Douchebagness—”

“Sergio.”

“—Freckledness?”

Jesus sighs in exasperation and shakes his head, although he’s smiling.

“First of all, I’m not a monk, I’m in training to become a priest. Second of all, yes we are allowed to have phones. Third of all, this is a _Catholic_ church, something you would recognize if you ever ever ever came to mass like you always promise me you will. And fourth, please don’t call him that to his face.” Jesus looks worried, as though Sergio actually will.

Sergio winks in order to worry him more.

“I make no promises.”

Jesus shoves at him and Sergio laughs and wrestles with the smaller man, putting him into a headlock. Jesus thrashes around, squealing a little too loudly, when a voice interrupts them—

“Are you harassing my clergymen?” 

Sergio feels his face grow hot almost immediately and he springs apart from Jesus. Jesus, for his part, looks absolutely horrified.

“Y-your h-h-h-highne—”

“Your clergyman was harassing _me_ actually,” Sergio says smoothly, smirking. He has the decency not to let his embarrassment or nerves keep him from seeming anything less than calm and perfectly collected. 

“Jesus Navas?” Fernando quirks a smile. He looks from Sergio to Jesus and notices how disheveled, but happy they both look. “He barely ever says a word, I don’t believe it.”

“One night at a bar and he thinks he already knows me,” Sergio replies, smirk widening. 

Jesus’s horror grows and Sergio distinctly feels sharp elbows in his side.

“ _Fu--_ ”

“I-I’m s-s-sorry your highness i-it won’t happen a-again.”

Fernando turns his gaze to Jesus and it softens. 

“Jesus, I’m not reprimanding you, I promise,” he says, kindly. “I won’t even tell Hodgson.”

“Archbishop Hodgson!” Jesus squeaks out before clapping his hands over his mouth in terror.

“So I keep hearing,” Fernando says and grins for some reason. He turns back to Sergio again and quirks an eyebrow. “So you made it.”

“You are an assh—” Sergio starts, but Jesus’s elbow connects hard with his side again. He feels the pain spread through his side and gasps at it while Fernando tries his best not to burst into laughter. “Fuck, I _hate everything_!”

“I’m sure,” Fernando says, the smirk now on _his_ face. 

“Y-your highness, I will let you two s-start your lessons,” Jesus stammers out while bowing. 

“You don’t have to—” Fernando begins, frowning, but Sergio cuts him off. 

“Yes, yes, I have a lot to teach~ him, I promise I will call mama later, don’t forget to eat your peas and carrots and wash behind your ears and clean the Satan shrine that you keep in your closet,” he says and begins lightly pushing at Jesus’s shoulder so that the smaller man has to shuffle to keep from falling.

“Dios mio, I don’t have a shrine to—” Jesus begins to squeak out in indignation, but Sergio just pushes him harder until Jesus gives up and stomps on Sergio’s instep and jogs away.

Sergio, for his part, clutches his foot in pain and horror and wonders desperately why his life has to be like this while Fernando starts laughing, loudly.

 

“So you know Jesus?” Fernando asks as Sergio follows him across the front “yard”. 

“No, how about _so you’re the crown prince of Andalucia_?” Sergio says, his voice loud and echoing through the courtyard. He can see sentinels shift in their positions—probably in annoyance—but he doesn’t care. He moves closer to Fernando and nearly hisses in his ear. “ _Why didn’t you tell me?_ ”

Fernando shrugs his shoulder and says quite possibly the most aggravating three words Sergio has ever heard in his life.

“You didn’t ask.”

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

Fernando just grins and takes Sergio’s elbow as he steers him through the front arch. 

Sergio’s eyes get progressively wider as Fernando leads him through large, sprawling corridors and foyers and up winding stairs and through archways that seem determined to outdo one another. The entire palace seems made out of the same smooth, white stone and the interior decorations are golds mixed with royal reds and winding bronze and blue spirals and moons painted up the arches and spilling across the tall ceilings above them. It’s, simply put, absolutely breathtaking. By the time they reach the room that Fernando is looking for, Sergio’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head. 

“If your head explodes before our lesson, I’m not paying your tuition charge,” Fernando smirks. 

Sergio just shakes his head in disbelief.

“Everyone bowed to you.”

“Yeah?”

“I counted at least thirty four of them.”

“You did?”

“Every single maid was drooling over themselves.”

“Shut up.”

“And some of the manservants too.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Fernando says, laughing. 

“You’re really the crown prince, oh my fucking god.” 

“That’s what I told you,” Fernando points out as he opens the door and gestures Sergio in to the room.

“No,” Sergio corrects indignantly, although he does as he’s wanted. “No you did not.”

“You’re never going to let that go are you?” Fernando asks, grinning. He slips into the room as well and closes the door behind them.

“No. Never.”

Fernando sighs.

“Sergio.”

“….yes?”

“I’m the crown prince.”

Sergio pauses and blinks.

“…..oh.”

Fernando rolls his eyes before laughing again. He walks across the room and opens a large window so that some of the stickiness from the room can be let out with the warm breeze. 

“Make yourself at home. Is there anything you need?” 

Sergio shakes his head and finds a chair to shakily sit down on. 

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Fernando asks and then adds, his eyes twinkling, “I can get someone to bring you something. I have people for that.”

“Fuck you,” Sergio says in response. He thinks that maybe he should be respectful to his potential future leader, but he can’t help but remember the young man he was so comfortable and enamored with the other night. Besides, he’s already unloaded a string of curse words on the prince and he hasn’t been sequestered by the royal guard yet, so he supposes he’s safe enough. 

At least, Fernando looks amused at Sergio’s iterations.

“In that case, profesor. Shall we begin?” 

Sergio blinks and suddenly remembers why he’s here.

“Oh. Right.”

He takes the straps off his back and sets the case on the ground, opens it and, for once, barely notices the blond watching him as he carefully takes his guitar out. He holds a breath as he settles it on his knee, softly stroking the wood and tuning the strings almost as if _this_ is his religion. He breathes a sigh of relief when he can feel that familiarity settle around him, when his fingers are in the positions they know unconsciously and subconsciously. 

Sergio looks up at a curious-looking Fernando and smiles. 

“Okay, so really it’s just. This sounds really stupid, but first you just have to take it in your arms and feel it. Feel the weight of it, feel the grain under your fingertips, feel how smooth the strings are, feel how it feels strapped to you, like another body part.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow.

“Really.”

“Shut up. I told you, it sounds stupid it just—” Sergio tries to find the words for what he’s trying to say. “I don’t think you can just learn to play. It’s a technical thing, kind of, but mostly it’s about the music and about your relationship with your guitar.”

“You have a relationship with your guitar,” Fernando repeats, his face lighting up in a smirk.

“Shut _up_ ,” Sergio says, glaring. “ _Yes_ , because playing isn’t about you, it’s about your instrument, it’s about how you treat her and about how she responds to you. It’s—fuck, it’s just, she’s the one playing the music, you know? Maybe you’re strumming, maybe you’re drumming out the beat with your feet, but in the end, if she doesn’t play, then you don’t.”

Fernando still looks questioning, although there’s something else there too now—understanding? Admiration? Maybe something so undeniably, yet subtly sad that Sergio can almost see it, but it’s not tangible enough yet to. 

“Look—Here, let me show you,” Sergio says.

“What are you—”

“Would you _shut up_?” Sergio asks and Fernando looks surprised, as though he’s never been commanded like that before, but does as he’s told. 

Sergio gets up from his seat and moves toward where Fernando is sitting. He slides the straps off his shoulder again and stands behind the prince, settling them onto his shoulders while placing the guitar carefully on Fernando’s knee. 

“Sergio, what—”

“Jesus Cristo, did you ever let your tutors actually teach you or did you just talk at them until they gave up?”

Sergio feels Fernando tense, but he ignores it. Serves the little brat right. 

“Here, now put your hand near the top—no, not there.” 

Sergio squats beside Fernando and guides one hand a few inches from the top of the guitar and the other close to the bottom. 

“….this feels awkward,” Fernando says hesitantly.

Sergio frowns, but then nods.

“That’s because you’re not sitting right, here.” He puts a hand on Fernando’s right knee and tries to nudge it. Immediately, Fernando winces. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah—yeah sorry,” Fernando breathes. He looks a little strained though, although Sergio cannot imagine what would be hurting him, since he’s sitting down. He spreads his fingers against Fernando’s right thigh instead and firmly guides it until it’s resting over the left leg. He then resettles the guitar over it. 

He lets his fingers linger near Fernando’s knee and looks up to look the other boy in the eyes. 

“Does that feel better?”

Fernando looks back and a small crease comes between his eyes. Sergio vaguely thinks that he looks like he’s searching for something there, in Sergio’s eyes, but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t know whether or not the prince finds it.

“Okay,” Sergio breathes and covers one of Fernando’s hands with his own. The prince’s hand is just as warm and smooth as it was the other night. His breath catches briefly in his throat, but he ignores it. “Just—close your eyes.”

This time, Fernando does what he’s asked without question. 

“How does it feel?”

Fernando doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he seems like he’s actually thinking, actually _feeling_. Maybe he thinks this is stupid. Maybe he _feels_ stupid. Sergio doesn’t know. What he knows is that there’s a stray strand of blond hair across high cheekbones and he can’t help reaching across to brush it out of the way. 

The prince’s eyes flutter open almost immediately.

Sergio blinks in surprise and bites on his lower lip, wondering if he’s being too forward, too obvious. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

Fernando cocks his head, curiously, but shakes his head. He says nothing else.

“How does it feel?” Sergio asks again.

Fernando looks uncertain but then he looks down at the guitar in his arms and then back up to Sergio.

“Natural.”

Sergio studies those large, sad brown eyes carefully and he thinks that maybe he sees something there that he didn’t see before. He can’t put his finger on what it is and he’s not sure what it might be, so he tucks that particular detail away into the corner of his mind. Instead, he lets his face light up in a genuine smile. 

“Yeah?”

Fernando nods and bites back a smile as well. 

“That’s how it should feel,” Sergio says, smiling. He leans in closer to Fernando, one arm around the back of Fernando’s shoulder and holding on to the head of the guitar, while the other wraps past his right shoulder so that he can position his hand over the paler boy’s. “Yeah, like that. Now just relax your hand a little. If you hold on too tight, it’s not going to make the right sounds.”

Fernando does as he’s told. His hand remains loose and pliable and Sergio takes the lead, guiding Fernando’s fingers through very, very basic strums. 

“I should really teach you the notes first,” Sergio murmurs over the light twangs of the guitar, “But you don’t really get to feel the music if you do it that way. Padre never taught me the notes, actually. He just taught me what the strings sounded like and what I had to do to get them to sound that way.”

“That’s not very technical,” Fernando replies, his voice quiet. 

“Nah, I guess not, but that way I wasn’t so focused on getting it right, you know?” Sergio says and he brushes Fernando’s fingers lightly up, so that his right hand is now closer toward the middle of the guitar. “There’s a right way to do music, I guess, but if you make everything into numbers and letters and timing, then you kind of lose what music itself is.”

“And what’s that?” Fernando asks curiously. His voice is a little breathy, but Sergio barely notices. 

“Most people say art, but that’s the lamest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Sergio says, shaking his head. His movements still for a moment as he thinks. “Music is—like, it’s when you’re watching a movie, right? Maybe it’s a really fucking scary one or maybe it’s a really beautiful scene. How do you know it’s scary or it’s beautiful? Yeah the pictures, maybe. But the pictures would be shit if there wasn’t music playing. Like, what makes scary movies terrifying? It’s the strings in the background that put your nerves on fucking edge. It’s how slow and tinny it is, god it just crawls into your fucking skin, doesn’t it?”

Fernando nods, his eyes wide.

“I mean that’s music, isn’t it? It’s what makes you feel. It’s like life or maybe it makes you _feel_ life, I don’t know.” Sergio shakes his head with a small smile and resumes guiding Fernando’s fingers. “Okay, you have to tighten your fingers up here too.”

He closes his fingers around Fernando’s near the head of the instrument. 

“You have to do it both ways. Work the strings from up here and then from down there too.” 

Sergio demonstrates, skillfully tightening and loosening his fingers near the top while simultaneously strumming near the middle. 

“It’s like fucking physics. You can’t let one part get too tight or the other get too loose, otherwise it won’t make the right sound. Just a centimeter or a few milliseconds and your entire chord will be off.” 

Fernando nods again, although Sergio can tell he probably doesn’t really understand what he means.

“Okay, do you feel that? Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Fernando says, looking at Sergio with a small smile. 

“Okay, I’m going to teach you a few sounds now.”

“…I can handle more than a few,” Fernando says, raising an eyebrow.

Sergio snorts.

“I’ll be surprised if you can even perfect one, mon liege.”

Fernando glares at him, but Sergio just pulls back, grinning slightly. 

“Okay, fine.”

“That’s the spirit!” 

Sergio leans in close again and this time he takes his time guiding Fernando’s fingers around the guitar strings. It’s harder than it looks—a lot harder than what he remembers lessons with his father being although, to be fair, he hadn’t been the teacher then—and Fernando curses and mutters more than a few times, but the time passes as they just don’t notice it. 

 

By the time the cathedral’s bell chimes three times, Fernando has gotten down _three_ sounds and a smirk on his face that’s so aggravating(ly endearing) that Sergio shoves him until they both burst out laughing. 

As Sergio finally packs away his guitar and stretches, arms extended far beyond his head, he can see the palace grounds sprawled out green just beyond the window. The sun peeks down from the corner and the wind ruffles a courtyard thrumming with life and an energy and luxury that he’s never had. He vaguely thinks he can see Jesus’s tiny figure, talking to somebody animatedly. Sergio can hear his laughter cut across the yard, louder and more familiar than anyone else’s. 

“What are you looking at?” Fernando asks curiously, adjusting his gaze from Sergio to where he’s staring.

Sergio shakes his head, unable to actually explain. He smiles faintly instead.

“Nothing.”

Maybe it’s not his particular freedom and maybe it’s not Fernando’s, but Sergio thinks that maybe, just maybe, it could be someone else’s.


	6. Sergio; Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _III. Sergio; **Part III**_  
>  **Word Count:** 7,573  
>  **Chapter Ships:** pre-Fernando/Sergio, implied Bojan/BB Serge  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13 for language  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**III. Sergio**   
_or time will waste you_   


They both arrange a schedule that works for them. Fernando is busy throughout the week with advisory council meetings and private tutorials that he now has to take due to his change in status. He has long since graduated from primary and secondary tutorials, but these aren’t so much academically-geared as they are monarchy-oriented. He sits through lessons on court etiquette, specifics of Andalucian monarchic history, the intricacies of foreign relations and policies, the inner workings of the military, instructions in French and English, and the intersections between macro and microeconomics. When Sergio meets with him for their guitar lessons, Fernando tends to spend the first half hour ranting about how much he hates court intricacies and how he could care less about the history of Andalucian domestic and foreign policy and how when he jumps out of the third story window, they’ll be sorry for forcing so many useless facts into his head. Sergio, for his part, is so tired from traveling and playing and being hungry for most of the week that it’s almost a secret kind of pleasure to hear about someone else’s troubles. 

They meet once a week—on Saturdays—and their lessons last for hours, partially because teaching and learning guitar is harder than either of them had expected and partially because they usually end up talking and laughing so much that the lessons drag on forever. The weekly lessons are a secret for both of them. Nobody asks Fernando why he’s added Sergio to the list of pre-approved visitors who are allowed in to the palace without identification and, in return, Fernando offers no explanation. Sergio thinks, briefly, that maybe he should tell Pepe or even Jesus, but then he decides against it and it isn’t because he doesn’t trust either of them, it’s more that Saturdays are a sort of secret escape for him; the one day during the week when he can forget about himself and focus on someone else or something else in a place that is some _where_ else. 

A month and some weeks in, Sergio shows up in their designated room—he doesn’t really know his way around the castle, but he’s been to this particular room enough times to know exactly where it is and which corners he needs to take in order to avoid the palace staff before getting there—and Fernando is already there. 

Sergio creaks open the door and peers in—making sure that no one else is there—before he slips into the room and quietly closes the door behind him. He smiles at the warm breeze blowing in through the open window, but that only lasts a moment before he spots bright blond hair on the floor. His smile flickers into a frown.

“What are you doing down there?”

“I’m tired,” Fernando complains. 

Sergio raises an eyebrow. 

“You’re tired.”

“I give up. I’m going to run away like Victoria and let Bo be next in line.” 

Sergio rolls his eyes. He sets his guitar against the wall and takes a seat next to Fernando on the ground. 

“You are not.” 

“You don’t believe me?” Fernando asks, cracking an eye open. 

“No I believe you, but if you did that, I’d be out of a job,” Sergio replied promptly and pushes a finger into Fernando’s belly. 

Fernando whines and pulls up his knee and curls into himself, trying to shield his body from Sergio. 

“You can teach David how to play the guitar.” 

Sergio snorts. 

“Yeah, let me just bring that up with the king.” 

Fernando whines again and rolls over and buries his face into Sergio’s thigh. Sergio blinks, his throat strangely drier than it had been a second ago.

“My head’s going to explode. I don’t think I can do lessons today.” 

Sergio pauses for a minute and then looks down at his hands.

“Oh.” 

He feels strangely disappointed.

“I can go.”

Fernando cracks both of his eyes open this time. 

“Hey, I’m still paying tuition, you can’t just _leave_.”

Sergio looks confused. 

Fernando grins a little and finally pushes himself to his feet.

“Here. Come with me.” 

 

Sergio’s not sure where Fernando is leading him, initially. He thinks that maybe they’re going to the kitchen or Fernando is going to finally introduce him to this Pipita he keeps going on and on about, but he doesn’t know the palace well enough to judge whether they’re going toward where the knights are housed or not. Actually, Sergio doesn’t even know _where_ the knights are housed, whether that’s inside the palace or to a building close to it or if they have to find apartments in town. He snorts a little. That would suck. 

He follows Fernando up a set of gilded, winding stairs, walks through two halls full of armor and mirrors, and a bright turquoise room with long tapestries that look as faded as the colors on the wall. Sergio’s mouth hangs open as the tapestry room opens onto a little indoor courtyard. 

“Jesus Cristo, how big is this place?” Sergio asks, eyes wide. He keeps whipping his head around to take in the grandeur that is the palace, although, honestly, it’s so large that he’s pretty sure he’s going to develop a severe case of whiplash pretty soon. 

“Too big,” Fernando mutters. 

Sergio shakes his head in awe and blindly follows the prince as they skirt past a group of men and women who are huddled to the corner with clipboards. He’s just about to ask who they are when he hears shouting from the other end of the courtyard. 

The man who’s yelling—a dark man with brightly colored clothes and a ridiculous hat with a bell attached to it on his head—seems to be gesturing as wide as the room itself. He apparently doesn’t understand that sound waves bounce around walls and accumulate until the result is near deafening. The group next to Sergio and Fernando wince and look over, glaring collectively.

"Listen bro. Did I _say_ I was going to do a bit about the shite you serve? Step up your listenin’, dumbass!"

The dark man throws his hands up, shakes his head, and jingles in the face of a small, white outraged looking man—Fernando informs Sergio that he’s one of the cooks—before storming off.

There’s a resounding silence that leaves Sergio nearly deaf.

"...you still have court jesters?" he asks as Fernando rolls his eyes and drags him toward the other end of the hall. 

The prince shrugs. 

"Not my idea."

Sergio snickers under his breath and turns the corner with Fernando until _finally_ the prince stops. Even before Fernando opens the door, Sergio has a feeling he knows where they are. 

The walls are higher than he expected and the room is decorated in a way that suggests Fernando had nothing to do with it—ornate mirrors and a large bed with gilded headboard and a ceiling that’s painted with cherubs that Sergio is _positive_ wasn’t Fernando’s choosing. It’s just as enormous as Sergio had imagined it would be, though—it’s practically a cavern. 

“Fuck, I think my entire apartment could fit in here twice,” Sergio mutters, eyes wide. He carefully steps in and feels woefully underdressed, as usual. He pulls on his sleeve and sees Fernando shake his head.

“I hate it. It’s too big.”

Sergio can’t imagine ever thinking that, as much of a luxury as space is to him now. He ignores Fernando’s bitching and grins as he jumps onto the bed, sprawling on his stomach. 

“Oh my god a bed,” he says, his voice muffled into the incredibly expensive and soft cover. 

“What did you say?” Fernando calls and Sergio lifts his face up to see the other man standing inside another open door just before he disappears inside.

“If you tell me your closet is an entire fucking room, I swear,” Sergio blinks and slides off the bed. He wanders over to the closet and—he really shouldn’t be surprised by how enormous the closet is or how many rows of suits and uniforms and plain _clothes_ that line the inside. That’s before he’s even turned to see the rows of shoes and ties and cufflinks. “Jesus Cristo, you have your own store.”

“I got a say in maybe a corner of it,” Fernando mutters from the other corner. Sergio sidles up to him and peers over his shoulder.

“Whaaaaacha looking for?” 

“Something—hold on, where was it?” Fernando rifles through four or five rows of uniform jackets before he seems to find the one he’s looking for. “Here!’

He turns around to Sergio and Sergio sees a glint in his eyes that’s, simply put, terrifying.

“What are you going to—No. No. _No_ , are you fucking kidding me?”

Fernando grabs Sergio’s shoulders before he can bolt. 

“Come on, you can’t walk through the palace the way you’re dressed right now, they’ll have you arrested.”

“No no no no no no I don’t care no no no no no—” Sergio’s insistent, panicked pleading are met with a deadpanned expression and Fernando’s hands forcefully guiding the blazer over Sergio’s arms. “Oh my god noooooooooooooooooooooo—”

“You are the biggest diva, oh my god,” Fernando says. He might be annoyed. He might be amused. Sergio doesn’t really fucking care, because he’s just been forced into a _jacket_ and it feels so heavy and proper on him that he already feels tea parties in his distant future. He starts fidgeting almost immediately. “Hold _still_.”

Usually Sergio would say _fuck you_ and flick him off, but Fernando’s hands are already all over his body. He stands stone still as Fernando pats down and smoothes Sergio’s shirt out, pulls the jacket tighter and straighter around his shoulders, straightens his collar, buttons up the bottom few buttons, and runs his fingers through Sergio’s long, unruly hair so that it looks somewhat groomed. Sergio holds very very very very still. 

Fernando then stands back to admire his handiwork.

“There. Perfect.”

Sergio glares at him and unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt to make a point. 

“I hate you.”

Fernando smirks.

 

Fernando also forces Sergio to run a proper brush through his hair and pull it back into a neat and proper ponytail, change into nice pants, and cover up any remaining tattoos that might be showing. By the time he’s done with his overbearing inspection, Sergio’s only response is to glare huffily. He manages to glance at his reflection in one of the dozen mirrors that Fernando has in his closet before he’s dragged out of the closet and out of Fernando’s room. He thinks he looks preposterous. Or maybe a little well-groomed, cleaned up, handsome. …but mostly just preposterous. 

When Sergio follows Fernando out and down the corridor, he’s shocked by how almost immediate the change is. Not that the servants of the state had been _rude_ to him before—it was more that they barely noticed his existence. For the past few weeks, he had managed to slip by without making a single ripple. It was his slight figure, his worn clothing, the way he held his body into himself when he walked behind Fernando. The very change in clothes changed things. The jacket was stiff enough that Sergio had to walk straighter; take up more space. Fernando had slowed his pacing so that they were walking side-by-side. Even Sergio can’t help but notice how many side glances he’s getting from the different servants and state officials walking past them.

“Feel different?” Fernando asks, smiling.

Sergio nods, feeling a little strange. This isn’t his life—it’s cordiality and pomp and circumstance and more than a little hint of restraint that he’s rebelled against since he was old enough to know what the word meant. But, at the same time, there’s something here—something just beyond his reach, something he can barely glean—that makes it just a little easier to breathe. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s no clear struggle. There are men and women in nice, clean, expensive clothes and shampooed hair and well-fed, healthy bodies and around them, the residue of something so comfortably luxurious and wealthy that it makes Sergio feel loose inside his skin. He wonders whether or not freedom is a question of circumstance—whether one man’s cage is another man’s freedom. Sergio thinks that maybe he could find his own freedom here, in his own time and his own way.

 

The palace has entirely too many rooms, Sergio decides after a while. Fernando tells him that there are around four hundred and Sergio stops counting after the thirtieth that they pass simply because after a while, every suit of armor and ancient tapestry and house crest starts to look exactly the same to him. The rooms are enormous, but mostly they bore him. The people, though—the people are the interesting part. 

There are the state officials, standing tall and prim, with the none-too-subtle, stuffy air of those well-educated and well-placed. They look entirely too comfortable where they are, as though they own a share of everything surrounding them and Sergio thinks that maybe they do. There are the servants; the maids and the assistants and the cooks and the manservants scurrying around, completing their duties in haste because the entire palace is too big and they have too much to do. Like Sergio, they tuck into themselves as they pass others, as though they are simply visitors who fear being tossed out if they assert themselves too much. That is until they round the corners and Sergio sees them loosen and with no one else in sight, they link arms and touch hands to hair and smile in a way that’s so casual and carefree that it’s more a matter of friendships and family than of people held together by common circumstance.

They pass a tall blond and a shorter blond who are leaning into one another, whispering, and Sergio is so busy watching them that he doesn’t notice when Fernando stops suddenly. He bumps into him.

“Shut up,” Sergio hears a young voice saying loudly. He hears two sets of laughter—completely comfortable, completely familiar with one another. Sergio peeks out from around Fernando’s shoulder. 

It’s a young boy with large eyes and dark brown hair that slides smoothly across his forehead and flips out unconsciously at his neck. He’s leaning against a wall, side profile to Fernando and Sergio although he hasn’t seemed to have noticed the two young men yet. He hands are lightly resting on another young boy’s shoulder—a young boy with lighter hair and a goofier smile, who looks so happy and so enamored that it makes Sergio’s heart ache ever so lightly. It’s not romantic, at least not yet, but there’s something so absolutely calm about them, an absolute understanding that Sergio can see, but barely understand. 

“No I’m serious!” the other boy insists and the boy with the dark hair shoves at him until he dissolves into laughter again and throws his arms around his friend in a hug. The dark-haired boy makes a face and shoves at his friend, but it takes a few seconds longer than it should and his face softens in a way that Sergio thinks is familiar. Sergio’s eyes flicker to Fernando’s face and while the prince looks confused and somewhat in awe, he doesn’t think he sees recognition there. Sergio recognizes it though. He wonders if either of the boys do yet. 

“You’re so—” the dark-haired boy begins before Fernando finally clears his throat. He turns to look at the source of the sound and Sergio manages to catch the quickest flicker of shock and fear before it’s completely gone. Instead, he subtly moves away from his friend and his look is replaced by the tug of a smile. “Fer!”

The boy looks like he wants to give Fernando a hug, but restrains himself. 

“Bo,” Fernando says with a slight nod of his head. Sergio notices his smile and it’s strange, because it’s smaller and more reserved than Sergio has seen in weeks. Suddenly, Fernando’s movements are a lot tighter, a lot more contained. He seems to stand taller, frozen in something Sergio can’t put his finger on. “Who’s your friend?”

The other boy doesn’t even bother looking nervous. He just sticks his hand out to the prince and beams.

“Sergio! Sergio Canales!” 

Sergio grins at that and knocks Fernando’s hand out of the way and grabs Canales’s hand in his own.

“Sergio. Sergio Ramos.”

Canales looks hesitant for just a second before laughing out loud. 

“Nice name,” Sergio grins.

“Nice suit,” Canales smirks. 

Sergio laughs at the cheekiness of the young boy and he wonders who and what he is that he can get away with it with no repercussions. He looks over at Fernando and the prince looks confused again, but also as though he’s holding back how amused he is. Sergio elbows him. 

“Oh. Right,” Fernando says, clearing his throat. He stretches out his hand toward Canales. The younger boy gives a grin that makes Fernando’s expression soften. “Fernando.”

“Prince Fernando, your highness!” Canales says and bows to Fernando. He does it without taking Fernando’s hand and it’s ill thought out because he doesn’t seem to be the most balanced of specimens and Fernando still thinks he’s getting a handshake so it’s really not that surprising to Sergio when Canales bumps his head awkwardly into Fernando’s hand and then scrambles up when he realizes his mistake. He’s flushed with embarrassment, but it’s endearing, Sergio thinks, as Canales finally properly grasps Fernando’s hand and shakes it vigorously.

There’s a sudden flicker through Fernando’s face and his smile tightens ever so slightly.

“Have we met before?” 

It’s lucky that Sergio is paying attention because otherwise he wouldn’t have seen Canales’s shoulder stiffen almost imperceptibly. 

“I don’t think so, your highness!” Canales says and Sergio’s sure he hears some nerves.

Luckily for the young boy, Bo sweeps in to rescue him. 

“He’s my friend, Fer,” he says, a little pointedly. “Are you going to introduce me to yours?

“Sergio!” Sergio says smoothly, sticking his hand out for Bo. “Sergio Ramos. Ambassador’s son.”

“Which ambassador?” Bo asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sergio blinks and opens his mouth, although he’s not sure what he’s going to say. He hasn’t exactly thought his impulsive story through all the way.

“Ambassador to Italy, _Bojan_ ,” Fernando replies in time, just as pointedly.

There’s a tense moment during which the two lock eyes and glare at one another. Sergio, frankly, has no idea what’s going on. Neither does Canales, it seems, because he and Sergio exchange bewildered looks.

“So you’re Bojan?” Sergio asks, interjecting in the hopes of diffusing the strange tension, and, once again, he has a sudden recollection of newspapers about the royal family. He adds on fluidly, “The youngest prince, right?”

“Yeah,” Bojan answers, looking at Sergio warily.

Things suddenly connect.

“Wait— _oh_ , you’re Nando’s younger brother!”

Bojan raises an eyebrow. Sergio feels as though he’s being scrutinized on multiple levels. He probably is, to be fair.

Sergio realizes belatedly that that makes Bojan a _prince_ and he bows then, as is customary. The gesture is foreign to him and he decides that it makes him feel a little too inferior, a little too submissive, which he automatically hates. He hides it though and smiles as he stands.

Silence follows immediately as four sets of eyes stare at each other awkwardly, a strange tension settling rife around them. Sergio shifts from one foot to another at the same time Canales does. The two catch one another’s eyes and raise their eyebrows at the same time. The two brothers seem oblivious to this until Canales lightly treads on Bojan’s foot. 

This makes the younger prince stir out of whatever reverie he’s been in. 

“Right, we uh, should go,” he says awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Canales nods fervently beside him. 

Fernando nods and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Right. We should too.”

There’s another awkward silence and Sergio has just about had enough of this. He has absolutely no idea what’s going on between the two princes, but the awkward tension is bordering on driving him absolutely crazy.

He’s about to break the silence with absolutely obnoxious questions—nevermind that he looks like a proper gentleman; that doesn’t mean he actually has to be one—but Bojan does it first.

“Where are you going?” the young prince asks, frowning slightly.

“We’re going to…” Fernando blinks and Sergio can tell he’s trying to come up with something on the spot.

“—the kitchen!” Sergio interjects, grinning. He throws an arm around Fernando’s shoulder—made a little more difficult by the uniform he’s wearing—and ignores the way the prince stiffens ever-so-slightly under his touch. “Your brother’s watching his weight again so I’m going to force him to eat until he shuts the fuck up about it.”

And as easily as that, the tension breaks. Bojan and Canales seem to accept this explanation because Bojan grins and Canales doesn’t hide his laughter. 

“What— I do not— I—” Fernando begins spluttering almost immediately, his face bright pink. 

“Bo eats like a duck!” Canales announces, grinning and throwing an arm around the other boy. 

Sergio blinks, not knowing what this means, although it seems to amuse Fernando enough to elicit giggles that he tries to cover with his hands. 

“ _Serge_!” Bojan says, turning pink—it must run in the family, Sergio thinks—and shoves an elbow into Canales’s side. Canales clutches his side and moans in pain almost immediately. Sergio feels a deep connection with this boy. Bojan gives Sergio and Fernando an apologetic look. “We’re going to go study now.”

Sergio makes a face and, behind Bojan’s back, Canales nods fervently again, mirroring Sergio. Bojan probably realizes this because he grabs Canales’s wrist and begins dragging him away. He’s taken a few steps when he turns back to Fernando and Sergio. 

“Fer—” he looks hesitant suddenly, and bites his lower lip.

“Yeah?”

“I got— I mean did you— Um.” Bojan looks as though he’s searching for words he can’t find. Fernando raises an eyebrow. His younger brother sees that look and his eyes shift down. He looks so subtly disappointed that it would be easy to miss. Sergio doesn’t miss it. Fernando apparently does.

“Never mind,” the young boy mutters, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you later!”

Fernando gives him a curious look, but doesn’t question Bojan. Canales elbows his friend slightly and Bojan shakes his head imperceptibly. He tightens his grip on Canales’s wrist and drags him down the hall. 

Sergio watches them even after Fernando turns his attention elsewhere. That’s why he sees Canales tangle his fingers with Bojan’s and Bojan accept, while Fernando sees nothing at all.

 

“The kitchen?” Fernando asks, raising an eyebrow as Sergio follows next to him again. 

Sergio shrugs. It was a subconscious utterance, an underlying need to _eat_ because he hasn’t in nearly two days and the fact that he’s still functioning on a human level is just a testament to how acclimated his body has become to near starvation. His stomach growls just then so as to remind him and Fernando shakes his head and smiles.

“If you’re hungry, just say so. We have more than enough food.”

There’s something to his tone that makes Sergio frown. He’s sure Fernando doesn’t mean it, but it makes him feel lowly, poor, somehow inadequate. He tugs at a stray thread on the sleeve of his borrowed uniform and suddenly feels self-conscious in it. 

“I can get my own food,” he mutters, eyes averted.

This time Fernando frowns and shakes his head.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just meant we have too much food here. Besides,” he says, suddenly smiling again, “if you’re starving you’re going to suck as a teacher and then I’ll never learn how to play.”

Sergio snorts. 

“Well if you keep skipping out on lessons to play dress up.”

Fernando shoves Sergio’s shoulder and Sergio finally relaxes again.

He follows the prince through the hallway, around the corner, down a flight of stairs, and past a courtyard before the servants coming in and out of the different rooms stop carrying linens and laundry and start carrying out trays of different food. Each one stops and bows as Fernando passes—a task made all the more difficult by the trays that they’re carrying—and the prince steals a few hors d’oeuvres that are being taken elsewhere. He shoves a mini cocktail hot dog at Sergio who immediately pops it into his mouth to sate his angry stomach. Sergio’s mouth starts watering at the different smells wafting out of the kitchen as he follows the prince in and his stomach concurs, sounding almost violent in its gurgling. He would be embarrassed if the kitchen wasn’t loud enough to hide the hungry noises. 

Sergio is pushed to the side as servants bustle in and out with trays. The kitchen is a chaos of frantic activity and he’s not surprised when a loud crash sounds from the corner.

“Shit, shit, _shit_!” a deep voice curses. Sergio looks over to see a tall, well-built man with white-blond hair bending down to pick up mini quiches that have scattered across the floor. 

From behind a little metal island, a shorter man with short, blond hair sticks his head out, his eyes wide. 

“ _Basti_!” he hisses. He’s balancing his own tray on one hand and trying hard not to topple over from the weight of it, it seems. “ _He almost heard you_!” 

“Thomas bumped into me!” this Basti protests but the other man shakes his head violently. 

“Hurry up, he’s almost done with the duck and he’s going to come out here to see how we’re doing!” 

“ _Shit_ ,” Basti hisses and scrambles to pick up the quiche again. They’re everywhere though. “ _Lukas, a little help_?”

Lukas shakes his head frantically and picks up another tray.

“I can’t, they’re waiting, I have to go!” 

“Wait—fuck, how am I going to explain the missing tray of quiche?”

Lukas shrugs and looks over his shoulder in terror before disappearing out a side door. 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” a stream of curses filter out through Basti’s lips before Sergio finds himself moving toward him and bending down to help.

“Just say you brought them out and they ate them all,” Sergio says, grinning, and reaches for a quiche that’s rolled under a cart. 

Basti blinks at the sudden intrusion. He looks as though he’s about to say something when his eyes widen and he stiffens. His eyes fly from Sergio to Fernando behind him and he straightens immediately.

“Shit! Fuck! No, I mean—” Basti looks a little stricken. “Your highness, I uhhhhh—”

Fernando snickers and shakes his head.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sergio shoves the last few quiche onto the tray and picks it up. 

“Stop staring at him, you’ll give him a big head,” he says and shoves the tray at Basti. “Here, go dump those in the trash and take the tray in. Seriously, just tell the chef what I said.”

Basti looks uncertain, but he takes the tray from Sergio and nods.

“Okay. Right. Thanks.” He dumps the tray of dirty quiche into the trash can immediately. He sighs and shakes his head, giving both Sergio and Fernando an apologetic look. “He’s going to kill me. It’s busy in there, your highness, I’d be careful.”

Sergio looks in confusion from Basti to Fernando, but Fernando just shakes his head and smiles. Basti shakes his head too, but it’s with an exasperated sigh as he disappears through the door opposite to the one Lukas went through. 

“Is it always like this in here?” Sergio asks as Fernando finally starts moving through past the kitchen servants again. He steals a slice of apple from one of the metal counters and pops it in his mouth, hoping nobody will notice. 

“More or less,” Fernando smirks. He leads Sergio from the front room into what appears to be the main kitchen. 

There’s an enormous electric range stretching across the far wall and three or four huge metal tables in the middle of the room that each has at least half a dozen workers cutting vegetables and cleaning meats at it. There’s a tall man with a shaven head and a chef’s hat on, stirring something at one end of the range. He keeps barking orders, so Sergio assumes that he’s the chef. 

“Don’t put too much salt on that duck, it’ll dry it out! No, no, you’re cutting the carrots too finely. –no, Marcelo, you cannot add another teaspoon of lemon juice. I—oh mon dieu!” 

He grabs a man with big, unruly, curly hair and shoves him in front of the pot where he was stirring at and forces his hand around the spoon.

“Stir, Leon, don’t let it burn.”

Leon nods his head as the chef abandons him to move beside a dark man with an obnoxious, curly afro and braces peeking out of from a mischievous grin.

Fernando shakes his head, laughing. 

“Same old Zizou.”

Apparently the chef hears this and looks up, an annoyed look on his face. When he sees who it is, however, his expression lightens.

“Fernando, come to steal food again?”

“That’s Prince Fernando to you,” the blond smirks. 

“That’s Royal Chef Zizou to you,” the chef retorts. He’s about to say something else when the curly-haired man beside him reaches for something and he immediately slaps his hand away. “Marcelo—go, just go find Angel and help him.”

Marcelo snickers and moves away from the pot he was working at. Zizou rolls his eyes and resets his attention to his dish and to Fernando.

“I can’t help you out here, Fernando,” he says and gestures to the kitchen. “We’re overwhelmed today.”

“Is the back room empty?” Fernando asks, leaning against the metal table to see what they’re making on the other side. He apparently sees something he likes because he reaches over, but Zizou swipes his hand away.

“Stop eating my food,” he admonishes. Sergio grins. He likes this man. The chef glances up and cranes his neck over his shoulder, then nods. “Sure. Don’t make a mess.”

Fernando grins. 

“Sure thing, boss!” 

Zizou rolls his eyes, but it’s with a smile as he goes back to directing his staff. Sergio gives him a little wave which the chef doesn’t notice, but it doesn’t matter because Fernando’s dragging him toward the back of the room anyway. 

Fernando pushes the door open and Sergio plods into a room that seems to be half-pantry and half-work room. The room isn’t particularly small, which is why even after the walls are lined with shelves of food, there’s room for two long metal tables in the middle of the room.

“They don’t usually use this room unless they have a huge dinner to make,” Fernando says. “Then they shove cooks back here so that they’re spread out more and can make more food.”

“And how do you know this?” Sergio asks, raising an eyebrow as he hops up on one of the tables. 

“Let’s just say I like food,” Fernando replies, winking. He moves toward some of the shelves and Sergio watches him. The prince rummages through the shelf he’s at, pushing aside cans and jars of food. He apparently finds something he likes and pulls it out from near the back. He turns and tosses the can at Sergio, who catches it smoothly. 

It’s a can of ravioli. Sergio raises an eyebrow.

“What, haven’t you ever had it cold?” Fernando asks just before tossing Sergio a fork. Sergio shrugs and peels away the top of the can using its pop top. Then he sticks the fork in and spears ravioli before sticking it in his mouth.

“Oh my gof,” he says around a mouthful. It’s actually fairly disgusting—ravioli should really be warmed up—but he’s suddenly so hungry, he’s sure that he would eat at least a dozen of them. 

Fernando smiles and turns back to rummaging through the shelves. He bends down at a particular one and pulls out a tub that has fruits in it. He grabs an apple and a banana and adds it to a small pile of cans he already has set aside. He pushes the tub back onto the shelf and grabs the armful of food and joins Sergio at the table.

“This is disgusting,” Sergio announces, swallowing a particularly lukewarm piece of ravioli. 

“Yeah, I know,” Fernando says, grinning. He opens a can of what looks like small hot dogs and sticks his own fork in. “Sometimes I get hungry and there’s no one in the kitchen and—well, there is no such thing as leftovers when there are so many people in the palace.”

“So you come here in the middle of the night and eat cold ravioli by yourself?” Sergio asks, amused.

“Well now, yeah,” Fernando says, smiling a little sadly. “David’s the one who showed me where Zizou keeps his spare key.”

“You know the chef pretty well,” Sergio observes. He looks over at Fernando’s can and tries to sneak a fork in. Fernando immediately slaps his hand away, although he looks amused. 

“Zizou’s been the chef here for as long as I can remember. He caught me and David once. I thought he was going to tell my madre and padre,” Fernando says, shaking his head. He spears a hot dog and sticks it into his mouth. He sighs a little and speaks again after he swallows. “He didn’t though. Actually thought it was hilarious.”

Sergio nods and sticks his fork back into his can. He feels as though he’s on the edge of something, or maybe Fernando is, and he doesn’t want to interrupt, because there’s a chance he’ll overshoot the boundaries and never get this chance again. 

“I actually helped him try out some of his recipes,” Fernando says brightly. His cheeks dimple at the memory and he sticks a fork into another hot dog to counteract it. “He used to stay late experimenting and I would come in and he’d let me taste what he was making and give him my opinion.”

“So you can cook?” Sergio asks curiously around a mouthful of ravioli.

“Yeah, a little,” Fernando says and he looks so happy and proud of himself that Sergio speaks without thinking. 

“Will you make something for me?” 

Fernando looks at him with questioning eyes. 

“Like a meal,” Sergio clarifies, although he immediately feels dumb. What reason would a prince have to do something as intimate as make a meal for someone he barely knows? 

“…really?” Fernando asks, biting on his lower lip.

“Yeah!” Sergio insists, leaning forward a little. “I haven’t had a homecooked meal in ages and, I don’t know, you should try out a recipe on me.”

Fernando’s cheeks tinge pink, but he looks pleased.

“I’ll eat anything,” Sergio continues. He grins widely and sticks a fork into Fernando’s can and withdraws it before the prince can protest.

“Hey!”

Sergio beams as he sticks the hot dog into his mouth and mmmm it tastes so good.

“You’re an asshole,” Fernando announces and Sergio nods his head.

“I know. Thank you!”

That makes the prince laugh and shake his head. He sticks his fork in and gets the last hot dog before throwing the can into the bin at the end of the room. It goes in smoothly.

“Nice shot,” Sergio says and follows suit with his empty can of ravioli.

“Thanks,” Fernando says after he swallows. He’s silent for just a moment before he cocks his head and looks at Sergio. “Okay.”

“…okay?” 

“Okay,” Fernando nods and picks up the apple and the banana. Sergio thinks he understands. “Which one?”

Sergio considers and points at the banana. 

“Good. I hate bananas,” Fernando says and trades fruit with the flamenco player. 

They sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the metal table, laughing and sharing stories that neither of them has thought of in years. Fernando tells Sergio about his brothers, about running around causing trouble with Pipita, about his favorite foods, about his favorite holidays and vacations and dinners. Sergio smiles at all of the right places, laughs at all of the right times, and touches Fernando’s knee when it’s necessary. Fernando leans into Sergio’s shoulder and laughs when the other man claims that this is the absolute most delicious banana he’s ever eaten and even tries it when Sergio shoves it in his face. He doesn’t agree and wrinkles his nose, but the smile on his face doesn’t make Sergio feel guilty. Sergio sneaks a bite of Fernando’s apple as the prince is holding in and it just makes the latter laugh, makes him shove at Sergio’s shoulder playfully. 

They talk about childhood and growing up and independence and freedom and what it means to truly be actually happy. Fernando’s cheeks dimple a lot and he opens a can of fruit to share with Sergio and as their feet bump into each other, as Sergio leans more and more comfortably against the prince’s shoulder, he thinks that right now that might be the only thing he properly knows.

 

The first time that Fernando visits _Sergio_ , it’s because the flamenco player is almost deathly ill. Of course, Fernando doesn’t hear it from Sergio himself given the younger man’s persistent refusal to invest in a cell phone. He hears it from Pepe and only then when he visits the pub Saturday evening after Sergio misses their lesson with no warning.

Sergio is lying on his couch, wrapped in a thin blanket because he feels as though his insides are freezing and bemoaning his lack of soup or, indeed, any food at all, when he hears a rapping on the door. He has no idea who it could be, so he turns to face the cushions of his couch and buries his nose in, ignoring it.

The rapping gets even louder.

“ _Go away_ ,” Sergio moans, but his frail voice barely makes it out of the cushion. When he doesn’t answer again, the knocking stops and Sergio’s shoulders relax a little. He feels so, horrendously, godforsakingly awful, he’s nearly delirious with it. 

He’s shaking from the cold and just about to drift off into a fitful sleep when he hears his door creak open.

“Sergio?” a tentative voice asks. 

Sergio thinks he recognizes it, but he’s too delirious to be sure. Whoever it is closes the door quietly behind them. There’s no more noise for a few more seconds, so Sergio lets his eyes fall closed again. They flutter open when he feels a hand resting against his forehead.

“Oh my god, you’re burning up.”

Sergio blinks blearily and thinks he can make out a fringe of blond blond hair. 

“Nando?” he croaks out.

“Sergio, how did you get this sick?” Fernando asks. Sergio can barely see him, but he can hear how worried he sounds. He can imagine the prince biting his lower lip and shifting from one foot to another. 

Sergio pushes off his blanket because he’s suddenly absolutely burning hot, but as soon as he does so, his body is deluged in a wave of ice. 

He whimpers a little and buries his face into the couch cushion again, not even bothering trying to struggle with his blanket to regulate his body temperature. 

“I don’t know how—” Fernando says, sounding worried again, but then he stops himself. He sounds surer as Sergio feels the prince’s cool cool hands on his burning, sweaty skin again, guiding him back to face him. “You don’t have anything here, Serge.”

Sergio shakes his head, barely conscious.

“’msorry.”

Fernando frowns, although Sergio can’t see it.

“For what?”

Sergio opens his mouth, but it’s dried out almost completely. He swallows sandpaper and closes it and then opens it again.

“…shitfest.”

Fernando seems to understand what he means. He sighs and Sergio hears him rummage around a little and hears the sound of running water before there’s something wet and cool pressed to his forehead. 

“I’m going to go get some things. Are you going to be okay by yourself?” Sergio blinks. Fernando pauses. “Okay, stupid question. I’ll be right back, I swear. Don’t, uh.”

Fernando looks around, finds a few pathetic pillows and lines them up by the couch.

“Okay, if you fall, fall onto those. Okay, I’ll be right back Serge, I swear, don’t die.”

Sergio thinks he just might because his body doesn’t really seem to want him to live anymore. He shakes his head; his cheeks, his forehead, his shoulders, his arms, his entire body are hot hot hot. He whimpers as he moves violently and rolls off the couch, wrapped in his thin blanket, and lands with a hard thud on the worn pillows. He wonders if this is God’s punishment for liking Fernando more than he should. Sergio thinks maybe he’ll ask Jesus later, but he doesn’t get the chance to now because he falls unconscious within a minute.

 

When he finally wakes up, he can tell that there are lights flickering on in his apartment. He has to blink rapidly and his eyelashes are stuck together, but he feels some movement and realizes that his muscles are at least minimally working again. He stirs and the now cold cloth slides down onto his mouth. He pushes it out of his way and rolls over—only to find that he’s been bundled up in a thick, warm blanket that he knows he doesn’t own.

Sergio lifts his head a little and tries to figure out what’s happening. He’s on the couch again, tucked in tight against the back of the cushions, wrapped in a thick, soft, sheep’s wool blanket. There’s a glass of water on the floor just beyond his reach. He tries to extend his arm toward it, but stops when he hears another noise to his right.

Fernando stretches in the chair he had apparently fallen asleep in. He rubs his eyes and when he sees that Sergio’s awake, he gives him a faint smile.

“Hold on, I’ll get it for you.” 

The prince is up and bent in front of the glass of water before Sergio can even ask what he’s doing here. He leans down in front of Sergio and holds the glass for him. Sergio wraps his fingers around the glass of water, but Fernando still doesn’t let go. Instead, he tips the glass back and Sergio drinks from it greedily; his throat so parched it feels as though he’s been living in the Sahara and hasn’t had anything to drink in years.

“Thanks,” he rasps. He leans back into the cushions again and realizes that his body has never felt so tired or aching, but he’s also never felt so warm before either. 

“I made you soup,” Fernando says with a bright smile.

Even ill, Sergio manages to raise an eyebrow.

“…okay, Pepe made soup and I brought it here. It’s cold now though and you don’t have a microwave, so I warmed it up on your stove.”

Sergio manages to stare at Fernando a little goggle-eyed. 

“…it works?”

Fernando grins and winks.

“It does now.”

Sergio shakes his head and Fernando disappears, only to come back with a large bowl of steaming soup. Sergio manages to sit up on his couch, although he pulls his blanket even closer to his body.

“Is this yours too?”

“It’s yours now,” Fernando says. He sits down next to Sergio and looks hesitant for a moment. Then he decides to be authoritative, apparently. “I know you can feed yourself, but I’m going to do it for you right now, okay? Just because you’re sick and I don’t need you falling off the couch again.” 

Sergio opens his mouth to protest, but Fernando just grins and quick as lightening, sticks a spoonful of soup into Sergio’s mouth. The younger man gags a little on the spoon, but swallows the soup immediately. The liquid slides down his dry throat blissfully and when the hot hits his stomach and begins warming up his body, tears come to his eyes.

God, he feels so awful.

Fernando patiently feeds Sergio his soup until the entire bowl is gone. Sergio, for his part, eats everything he’s given ravenously and Fernando says it’s a good sign that his appetite is returning. As if it had ever gone anywhere to begin with, but Sergio’s too busy trying not to cry from delirious happiness to say anything.

When they’re done, Fernando moves to go put the bowl in the kitchen, but Sergio stops him.

“Don’t.”

Fernando freezes where he is and looks at the sick boy sympathetically. 

“What—”

“Don’t?” Sergio asks, pathetically. “Please.”

Fernando doesn’t look like he knows what to do, so Sergio explains for him. He rests his warm, sweaty head against Fernando’s shoulder and leans into his body.

The prince still looks uncertain, but when he hears Sergio’s soft whimpers smooth out into quiet, even breathing a few minutes later, Fernando puts the bowl on the ground and wraps his arm around Sergio’s frail form instead. 

There’s a minute of pure quiet and of pure hesitation before the prince leans toward the younger man and presses his lips to his feverish temple.


	7. Sergio; Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _III. Sergio; **Part IV**_  
>  **Word Count:** 5,628  
>  **Chapter Ships:** pre-Fernando/Sergio  
>  **Chapter Rating:** WARNING -- **R** for violence, language, and dark themes  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**III. Sergio**   
_or time will waste you_   


It only takes the one time before Fernando begins dropping by Sergio’s apartment regularly. The second time he comes, Sergio is surprised. The third time, less so. By the fourth time, Fernando’s visits almost become a routine, just as Sergio’s lessons at the palace are. They carve space into one another’s lives and they fit there, somehow, Prince Fernando Torres Beckham and his rules and regiments and the smiling, worn, carefree boy hidden so carefully underneath and Sergio Ramos and his sporadic lifestyle and poverty and long hair and tattoos and flamenco music that always thrums just above his skin, in miniscule waves. It’s the freedom that Sergio has that Fernando craves and it’s the exotic luxury and reserved demeanor that Fernando has that Sergio can’t seem to get enough of, the mystery that he can’t seem to solve. They fit together nicely, sprawled on Fernando’s bed, talking or sitting across from one another with the guitar or leaning into one another’s arms, side-by-side as Sergio teaches Fernando how to play Spades on his floor. Fernando, for his part, teaches Sergio about the court and complexities of kingdom economics and the monarchy’s history and makes him watch old games of his favorite football team. 

Sometimes Sergio thinks they make no sense at all, but then Fernando’s cheeks dimple and Sergio sees that warm smile he keeps hidden from everyone else and he realizes that no, no they are just perfect.

 

Fernando doesn’t bother knocking on the door anymore. He has since discovered that Sergio never locks his door and, apparently, his apartment is the one stable place he can think to find Sergio if Sergio isn’t at Pepe’s. Past Pepe’s and the apartment, Sergio Ramos is nearly impossible to get a hold of. 

Sergio is stretched out on his worn couch, ankles dangling over the armrest at one end and arms stretched above his head when he hears his door creak open. He knows that it could be one of exactly three people. Pepe’s voice can always be heard before the door can and Jesus never comes in without knocking. So that only leaves one possibility.

“Escape your cage again, princess?” he grins, tilting his head backwards so that Fernando comes swimming into his view. 

“Shut up,” Fernando says automatically, although it’s with a smile. “You’re impossible to get a hold of, you know that?” 

“Why, did you need me for something, your royal laziness?” Sergio grins. Fernando looks around the room for a place to sit. Technically Sergio should move, but he doesn’t.

Fernando smirks a little and shrugs before plopping down on Sergio’s legs.

“Fuck, your ass is _huge_ ,” Sergio exclaims. He still doesn’t bother to move.

“Shut the fuck up, you’re such a lazy asshole,” the prince says, punching Sergio in the stomach.

“My, such vulgarity. Does the king know this is what his precious baby brother has become? “

Fernando snorts.

“And whose fault is that?” 

“And who keeps coming back for more?” Sergio asks suggestively, smirking. 

That earns him another punch to the stomach. He groans and flicks his prince off. They both shift and Fernando settles a bit easier, half on Sergio’s legs and half on the couch itself.

“I came for a reason today,” Fernando says. He seems a little fidgety, so Sergio raises his eyebrows skeptically.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” The blond chews on his bottom lip nervously and Sergio immediately feels worried. He pulls his legs out from under Fernando and sits up on his couch.

“What’s up, Nando?”

“I—” Fernando begins, but then flushes. “I—Well okay first of all, you can’t fucking laugh.”

Sergio raises an eyebrow. 

“ _Promise_.”

“I won’t fucking laugh.” Sergio rolls his eyes. 

“Second, you can’t fucking make fun of me.” 

“Oh my fucking god you are such a fucking girl.”

Fernando punches Sergio in the stomach _again_. Sergio shuts up.

“That’s better,” Fernando says, nodding in approval. Then he colors again and he digs around in his jacket pocket. He produces a little white box and shoves it at Sergio.

“Nando, what—”

“Would you shut the fuck up and open it, Sergio?”

Sergio blinks. He gives Fernando a look but does as he’s told. He slides a fingernail under the tape on one side and then does the same for the other. The box opens easily. 

He lifts the lid and looks inside to find—

Sergio stops and blinks again. He looks up at the blond who has gone an incredibly impressive shade of red. 

“…well?” 

“It’s a cell phone,” Sergio says, carefully.

“….yeah.”

“You got me a … cell phone?”

“….yeah.”

“I don’t have a … cell phone.”

Fernando lets out an exasperated sigh.

“No. No you don’t. Which is why I _got_ you one. Are you understanding how this gift thing works?” 

“But why would you get me a cell phone?” Sergio says, frowning. He fiddles with the box and is surprised to find that he feels kind of—well. _Angry_. “I’m not your fucking charity case, Nando.”

Fernando looks surprised.

“…what?”

“I’m _not_ your fucking charity case. If I wanted a goddamn cell phone I would buy it for myself.” Sergio shoves the box back roughly at Fernando.

“Sergio, I—”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Sergio says, hotly.

“I know but—”

“I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eighteen fucking years old.”

“I know, Sergio, but—”

“Who are _you_ to barge in and hand me a fucking _cell phone_ like I can’t afford it myself, like I’m too incompetent, like I’m too fucking poor and homeless and need—”

Sergio’s tirade gets cut off as Fernando covers his mouth with his hand. Sergio blinks and starts to turn pink from anger.

“Sergio, you talk so fucking much, Jesus Christ. I did _not_ get you a cell phone because you’re a charity case. I know you can take care of yourself. I know you have pride as large as the fucking palace itself. I got you a cell phone because you are _hard_ to get a hold of and sometimes I just want to fucking _talk to you_.” 

Fernando glares at Sergio, pink despite himself. Sergio blinks again and his mouth forms a little _oh_. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Sergio grins. 

“You like me.”

Fernando pauses. His mouth hangs open a little. 

“You liiiiiiiiike me.”

“What the fuck.”

“You really really liiiiiiiiiiiiiiike me!”

Fernando looks annoyed and somewhat embarrassed. He shoves at Sergio’s shoulder. 

“See if I do anything nice for you again.”

“You liiiiiiiiiiiike meeeeeeeeee!” Sergio says again, laughing, and before Fernando can glare at him or curse or abuse him again, he wraps his arms widely around the other boy’s shoulders. He grins and gives a huge, sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Thaaaaank you, my liege, my liege, my only liege.”

Fernando looks like he’s trying to look irritated and mad, but there’s too much of a smile on his face for Sergio to be fooled. 

“You’re such an idiot,” he mutters instead, although he looks thoroughly pink and thoroughly pleased. 

Sergio grins and gives him another kiss on his cheek before letting go and taking the phone out of the box. 

“What’s my number?” he asks. His face has suddenly lit up and he can feel a long-lost, but strangely familiar thrum of excitement in the pit of his stomach. The last time he had something new, it had been his seventeenth birthday. 

“Here, I’ll show you,” Fernando says, smiling. He leans over Sergio’s shoulder and takes the phone in his hand to guide the buttons through the settings. 

Sergio watches, eyes wide. He’s seen cell phones, of course, and he knows, vaguely, how to use them. But he’s never had one of his own; never had the buttons or the settings to play around with. He’s not exactly technologically adept, but he’s not a foreigner to how fucking awesome technology can be. 

“Are you paying attention?” Fernando chides when he realizes that Sergio is just staring, but not really responding to any of his promptings or the things he’s showing him.

Sergio nods slightly, biting his lower lip.

“I just—I haven’t had anything new in so long,” he says quietly and a pink tinge appears across his forehead. 

Fernando watches him quietly and gives him another smile before leaning into his shoulder. 

“I think this is a good place to start.”

Sergio nods and leans in close, determined to pay attention to Fernando now. Then he thinks of something and he frowns, nerves appearing where they hadn’t been before.

“Nando…”

“What?” Fernando looks up from where he’s been typing something on the phone.

“I—uh. I mean this is really fucking nice of you and—really, I really fucking appreciate it, no one’s ever really—but I mean.” Sergio clears his throat and tries not to look mortified. He gestures weakly around him. “I barely have enough to pay for this shitfest. I can’t pay for service.”

Fernando seems to understand immediately and he shakes his head and presses the phone hard into Sergio’s palm.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Nando, I’m not going to—”

“Don’t _worry about it_.” 

“You can’t pay for—”

“Jesus Cristo Sergio, I’m the fucking prince, will you just trust me?” Fernando glares at him.

Sergio’s mouth opens and he shuts it almost immediately. 

“I’m not paying for anything. We have a contract with the phone company. The entire palace staff is on the same plan and they make so much fucking money off of it that David, Bo, and I don’t have to pay a peso. And we can ask for an unlimited phone for whoever we want,” Fernando says, rolling his eyes. “As long as we’re not giving out free phones to the entire kingdom, it doesn’t matter.”

Sergio’s expression softens and he can feel his throat and chest constrict because he doesn’t think anyone’s ever done anything like this for him.

“Oh okay,” he finally says, nodding, although his voice is a little thick. If Fernando notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Thanks.”

“Just stop talking so much,” Fernando says, his tone softening again and a smile returning to his face. He finishes keying in a few last things. A little beep sounds from the phone and he returns it to Sergio. “There.”

“What did you do?” Sergio asks curiously. 

Fernando grins and covers Sergio’s hand with his own, guides the other boy’s thumb so that he selects the Address Book. He makes Sergio click into it and there—

“If I’m not always number one on your speed dial, I’m going to have Pipita kick your ass,” Fernando smiles widely.

Sergio just blinks at the text entry in the little silver phone in his hand. 

_#1. Fernando Torres_

 

Fernando meets him at Pepe’s on the nights he works there because it’s the only place he’s certain to find Sergio on certain days of the week. Although Sergio has been getting minimally better at answering his cell phone, he still jumps when the phone rings in his pocket and by the time he’s done fumbling with the buttons, the call has already ended; he’s really quite bad at technology. He sits at the counter and sips at his beer while Pepe runs around yelling at his customers and occasionally exchanging bits of conversation and gossip with the prince. If he’s figured out that Fernando is more than just a random man that Sergio has befriended, he doesn’t say anything. Fernando waits for Sergio to finish his work for the night—always getting his drink ready for him during his breaks—and when the flamenco player finally packs his guitar up, he smiles, hands in his pocket, and Sergio steps off the stage with a grin. 

It’s a familiar routine they’ve worked out, something so comfortable and somehow so intimate that Sergio can’t help the way his chest starts to spurt every time he sees Fernando slide off the stool and meet him halfway to the stage. He’s never really had someone waiting for him like that and even though he knows there’s nothing Fernando can offer him but friendship, Sergio thinks he’s found a piece that’s been missing for so long that he had never known it was missing to begin with. 

 

“Where to?” Fernando asks this particular night when Sergio finishes and meets him at the third table from the front—their designated meeting place. “A club?”

“How about just a walk?” Sergio suggests, stretching his arms above his head. Fernando nods and smiles and they both wave good night to Pepe who waves back using the handle of the mop he’s using to clean up. 

“You seem tired,” Fernando observes as Sergio yawns and leans his shoulder into the prince’s. 

It’s because food has been particularly hard to come by recently and Sergio still isn’t completely healthy from the flu and cold mixture he had suffered from a few weeks ago—Jesus says it’s malnutrition and worries incessantly, but Sergio just dismisses that—but he doesn’t want Fernando to worry.

“Just haven’t been sleeping that well,” he lies, shrugging. “No big deal.”

Fernando looks at him suspiciously, but lets it go. They walk through the town, looking in through shop windows and murmuring bits of conversation that’s so sleepy and so quiet that Sergio feels the night settle around their shoulders like powder. It’s a calm sort of night and Sergio thinks that maybe he’s tired for more than one reason.

Fernando’s blond hair glints under the moon and it looks as though it had been combed neatly earlier, but has since rebelled against maintenance. His skin looks even creamier than usual and when he breathes out, little puffs of smoke hang in front of him before dissipating. The smiles he keeps giving Sergio warms the pit of his stomach and he can’t help it; he looks so aggravatingly endearing when his freckled cheeks dimple and Sergio wants to reach out and touch him so much that he emits a little sigh of frustration before he even knows it.

“What’s wrong?” Fernando asks lightly, giving Sergio a curious look.

Sergio shakes his head and maybe it’s a little too quickly, because Fernando isn’t convinced. 

“Sese,” Fernando says, using the nickname that he’s picked up from Jesus. He looks skeptical and the question is forming on his lips, Sergio can tell.

He shakes his head vehemently.

“It’s nothing Nando, I swear!”

That makes Fernando look even more irritated, for some reason. Sergio has a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that this isn’t going to end well.

“You always do that,” he says suddenly, shifting from one leg to another.

“What?” Sergio asks, confused.

“You give me funny looks or make strange noises or start your sentences, but never finish them.” 

Sergio’s stomach drops and he can feel his face heating. He thought he was being at least somewhat subtle.

“It’s really fucking annoying.” 

Sergio opens his mouth. Tries to think of something to say. Doesn’t succeed. Promptly closes it again.

There’s a minute of quiet as Fernando waits expectantly, but Sergio just shakes his head.

“You seriously have nothing to say?” the prince’s voice is becoming tighter. Sergio’s throat is a little dry, so he just shakes his head again. “I tell you things, you know.”

Sergio nods.

“When you ask them. Sometimes when you don’t ask them.” Fernando frowns and balls up the bottom of his shirt in his fist. “You don’t really tell me anything.”

“Nando, I—”

Fernando shakes his head. He looks upset, somehow, his face flushed with what looks like a mixture of embarrassment and graceful indignation. 

“Nothing important. You just tell me little things. I don’t even know about your siblings. I don’t even know their names.” Fernando sounds so unexpectedly upset that Sergio curls in a little on himself. He wants to reach other and reassure the prince, but he only knows how to do that physically and he knows he can’t do that, not in the way he wants to.

“Nando, _please_ I just—”

“You don’t even have any excuses for me, do you?” Fernando says suddenly. His expression changes from upset to near angry so quickly that it makes Sergio’s head spin. The prince lets out a bitter breath. “Of course not. I’ll just be an open book and you can just be a fucking unsolved puzzle. That’s your reputation isn’t it? You can never accept help, you can never let anyone in, you’re so fucking _mysterious_ and _independent_ and _cool_ aren’t you, Sergio Ramos?”

It stings. It actually stings a lot and Sergio is surprised to feel it deep in his chest.

“Whatever.”

Sergio opens his mouth to defend himself, to try to make Fernando _understand_ and he’s just not sure when he became this way, when he turned into this person. He’s never before been dependent on anyone or their opinion of him, but he _needs_ to make Fernando understand, he didn’t mean to upset him, it’s actually killing him that the prince is upset although he has no real reason to feel that way. They’re just friends. Just fucking friends and that’s killing him too, Sergio realizes.

“I can’t _tell you_ ,” Sergio finally manages to spit out. His stomach is twisting in on itself. Fernando is still eyeing him suspiciously, as though he knows. _He knows he knows he knows_. Sergio feels like he’s going to vomit.

“Whatever, Sergio.” Fernando turns to leave, his shoulders tensed with anxiety and something else that Sergio can’t quite place.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Sergio’s pretty sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest at any moment. He’s pretty sure he can already taste the iron on his tongue and isn’t that one of the first signs of a heart attack? He thinks, vaguely, that maybe he’s being overdramatic, but, then again, he doesn’t need his brain to tell him that. His heart is thudding rapidly enough in his chest because it knows him, it knows everything about him.

“Fernando,” Sergio says, suddenly grabbing the prince’s elbow and stilling his movements. “Stop. God, please stop.”

Fernando turns around, looks at Sergio through brown eyes that are both angry and a little—sad? He stands straight, angry, regal.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Sergio realizes, for perhaps the very first time since they’ve met, that this is the _prince_. This isn’t just Fernando Torres. This isn’t just a beautiful boy who rescued him at Pepe’s pub. This isn’t just an intelligent, warm, funny student he’s somehow managed to pick up along the way, not just someone to pass his flamenco playing on to. This is Prince Fernando Torres Beckham, son to the previous ruler, brother to the current one, the second in line for the throne—someone whose very birth made ripples in time. He is infinitely important to almost everyone in Andalucia and to countless people around the world. And Sergio—he is just a boy. Just an aspiring flamenco player who dropped out of education too soon, who barely has enough money to feed himself, who is too proud to ever ask for any help, who hasn’t spoken to his family in months just because he’s ashamed to face his father and see the disappointed look on his face. 

Sergio thinks that somewhere along the way, he fell in like with this beautiful, important, _amazing_ boy and who knows why he tolerates Sergio at all? But he also thinks that, somewhere along the way, he mixed the lines between what is proper and what is not, between what is right and what is not. The lines are so far gone that the only thing that remains is a deep ache in Sergio’s chest and a conscious fear that there’s no way this can’t end in a broken heart. It’s happened before, Sergio thinks. He doesn’t know if it can survive it again.

“Sergio?” Fernando repeats, extremely annoyed.

But he can’t not try. 

“Fernando, I—” Sergio’s eyes flicker and his stomach is tangled with his heart somewhere near his throat and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is retribution for always following his heart _too_ much, because it had ended him up here. “Fuck, Nando.”

Sergio grasps Fernando’s wrist and pulls him to the side, pulls him into an alleyway that might be deserted, but might not be. It’s not as though he’s paying attention enough to notice. Or care.

Fernando looks simultaneously confused and livid. He’s nearly vibrating with anger.

“Serge, what the _fuck_ \--”

He thinks maybe he’s going to get drawn and quartered because he watched Braveheart when he was younger, so he knows that royals like to do that, especially when someone is basically inviting death, basically welcoming it with open arms. The last image in his mind before he shoves Fernando against the wall and covers his mouth with his own is of a brave and foolish Mel Gibson, outnumbered and outflanked, but still rushing to his inevitable end. How absolutely, horrifyingly appropriate. 

 

For five terrifying seconds, Sergio can feel the other boy’s body slack under his own. Fernando doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move; he barely breathes. His eyes are large and Sergio thinks he sees something flicker there—horror? revulsion? disgust?—and his mouth opens a little, as though he’s about to say something but is so horrified that he can’t even find the words. 

Sergio thinks he feels his own heart stutter to a halt and he pulls away quickly, ready to find a trash can to vomit into.

“Fuck, I’m sorr—” Sergio begins to apologize, his chest and stomach curdling from sharp, jagged knife wounds. 

Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he forgets that he can’t always do what he feels like doing. Sometimes he forgets that other people feel differently. Sometimes he forgets that other men—men who he likes, men who he finds attractive, men who he would kill to be able to press against a wall and kiss and fuck around with—don’t always like men, that sometimes, he’s the only one. Sometimes he forgets, and that’s usually when he fucks up the only good thing he ever has going for him.

Fernando’s breathing picks up and Sergio suddenly finds cool hands to either side of his neck. 

“Shut up,” his prince commands—and who is Sergio to say no to his prince, really? Sergio’s movements stutter to a halt almost immediately. 

There’s a moment of silence, when the air stills to a deathly calm around them.

Then his eyes widen as Fernando roughly pulls Sergio’s face back to his, lips meeting in a hungry, desperate clash, almost as though they’ve been waiting for this the entire time.

 

Sergio’s can feel a rapid thudding in his chest and he thinks that maybe his legs have lost feeling, but there’s no way to know for certain because he’s too busy devouring what he’s being offered. He presses closes to Fernando, hands tight at his hips, and the way Fernando’s lips move against his—hungrily, eagerly, almost achingly—makes Sergio moan lightly. He tries to keep it silent, knows that it’s possibly too much, but wisps of sound escape despite his efforts. 

Fernando’s movements falter for a moment, but then they pick up again and his kissing is harsher this time, rougher, with less hesitation and more edge. Sergio licks at Fernando’s bottom lips and he can almost feel the other man’s skin warm as the blush spreads across. Fernando doesn’t hesitate though—he opens his mouth for Sergio and Sergio licks his way in, sucking at lips and tasting everything that is Fernando Torres. 

His arms tighten around Fernando’s slim waist and as Fernando’s hands brush against his chest to grip at his collar, he thinks nothing has ever felt so perfectly right in his arms before. 

 

They break apart only when it becomes extremely clear that they need to breathe and their lips are too swollen to make it much further without a moment to themselves. As soon as Sergio pulls his face back, they both let out shuddering, hot breaths.

“Oh my god,” Fernando breathes out harshly, his voice so rough that he’s rasping.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sergio mutters. He thinks that maybe he should catch his breath, but mostly he’s already too addicted to the boy in front of him to miss even a second of what—he knows, rationally—might be his only opportunity. He moved his lips past Fernando’s mouth to his jaw so that he can trail kisses down the side of his throat. Fernando’s grip tightens in his hair and it feels so fucking good that Sergio thinks he might pass out.

“Sergio—Serge, _Sese_ , fuck—” Fernando seems to be having a hard time breathing or even forming words. When he finally grasps Sergio by the shoulders and gently pushes some distance between them, Sergio lets out an embarrassing whimpering sound. 

“Sorry,” he mutters when he finally catches his breath and convinces himself that it’s not a rejection, just a necessity because breathing is good, breathing is probably necessary. Fuck breathing. “Sorry, fuck, sorry—”

“I swear to God if you apologize again,” Fernando says and he twists his fingers into Sergio’s long hair. 

Sergio shakes his head, eyes wide, and he’s not sure he understands what he’s going on. If he wakes up within the next few minutes a la Dallas, he swears Jesus is never going to hear the end of it. 

“I don’t—”

“Next time,” Fernando says, cutting Sergio off, “if you kiss me in a creepy, abandoned alley, I swear I will have you drawn and quartered and send your body parts to Norway.”

Sergio’s eyes widen.

“Why Norway?” he asks, licking his lips and feeling self-conscious.

“Because it’s fucking cold up there. I’ll save your hair though,” Fernando says and tugs on it a little. “Because I fucking love it.”

Sergio shivers a little at how authoritative Fernando sounds and he nods rapidly. 

“Yes. Got it. No kissing in alleyways.” 

“Prince’s orders,” Fernando adds for good measure and then grins.

A pause. 

“…but anywhere else?” Sergio asks hesitantly.

Fernando’s eyes seem to glint with mischief.

“Anywhere else is fine,” he says. There’s a smirk on his lips and he allows another few seconds to allow their breathing to catch up before pulling Sergio’s face to his again. 

 

Fernando’s back is covered in building dust and the bottom of Sergio’s shirt has come untucked from his jeans and they’re both breathing rather hard by the time that they finish. They both take a few minutes to straighten themselves and Fernando pulls his hood back over his head. He licks at his swollen lips and grins a little, face flushed. It makes Sergio’s breath catch.

“I’m going to go first,” Fernando says. He blinks and laughs at the sad face that Sergio makes, complete with ridiculous puppy dog eyes. “Just wait a few minutes. I’m a fast walker.”

“Wait!” Sergio says and Fernando stops halfway to turning around. 

“What?”

Sergio opens his mouth and closes it. He’s not really sure what he was planning on saying or if there even _was_ anything that he was planning on. Mostly he’s just nervous. Mostly he just thinks the prince is going to wake up tomorrow morning and realize this was all a mistake. Mostly he’s just already so head-over-heels for Fernando that he’s terrified that he’s going to fuck it up the first chance he gets. He probably looks it, because the prince’s gaze softens. Quicker than Sergio is expecting, Fernando takes his hand and gives it a sharp squeeze. Before Sergio can blink, it’s gone again.

“Lessons tomorrow?” 

Sergio raises an eyebrow and Fernando laughs.

“ _Guitar_ lessons.”

Sergio breathes a little sigh of relief and nods his head, smiling. 

“Yeah. Same as usual?”

“Sounds good.” 

The prince gives him another dimpled smile before sticking his head out of the alleyway, checking to make sure that there’s no one to notice him, before he darts out to make his way back toward the palace. 

 

Sergio lets out a breath of relief as soon as Fernando’s blond head disappears around the corner. There’s an overwhelming feeling threatening to burst out of his chest and it’s so scarily like true, pure _happiness_ that Sergio doesn’t know what to do with himself. He grins widely, practically beams at the wall, and licks at his lips, where he can still taste Fernando vividly. 

He leans against the wall where Fernando had been and recalls the feeling of the other man’s body and he can hardly believe it—not just because Fernando is the prince, but because, somehow, it had been okay to do that and Sergio hadn’t managed to fuck up the one really good thing he had going in his life. That he wanted to keep in his life. He colors a little at the thought, but he’s not embarrassed.

Sergio touches his fingers to his lips and thinks that, for the first time in his life, he’s so absolutely, unabashedly, irrevocably, completely _happy_ that he really just might cry. 

 

When Sergio hears movement, he figures that there’s a cat darting out from its home among the trash cans. He looks down the alley, the absurd, beaming smile still on his face, but what he sees isn’t a cat. The smile slides off his face. 

He thinks that maybe he should say something, but then he thinks that maybe it’s safer not to say anything. Maybe it’s better just to leave quickly because the mouth to the alley is right there. 

Sergio turns to move, but he’s grabbed almost immediately.

“Fuck, _let go_!” he curses and tries to struggle against the strong pair of hands that have clamped down on his shoulders. 

“You trying to run from me, little faggot?” The man’s voice is just as gruff as he looks; just as low and intimidating. Gravelly almost to the point of hurting Sergio’s ears.

“Fuck man, just let me go, I don’t have any money for you,” Sergio says and tries to push himself out of the other man’s grasp, but he’s too skinny, too malnourished and the other man is decidedly the opposite. 

“I don’t want your money, you fucking cocksucker,” the voice growls and Sergio finds himself being pushed roughly against the wall. 

His face digs in and he can feel the bricks scraping his skin, his ribs digging painfully against each other because there’s nowhere for them to go as his diaphragm contracts, as he tries to breathe. Struggling is pointless because the man has his arms twisted painfully into his back. Sergio pushes back but the man shoves him even harder and presses his body close.

“How about this? This hard enough for you? This sick enough for your perverted ass?” 

He presses in so hard that Sergio feels like he’s going to vomit. It hurts. It fucking _hurts_.

“Fuck, let me the fuck _go_!” 

“You want me to let you go?” 

The man grabs Sergio by the shoulders and hurls him against the other wall. Sergio’s side connects with the brick and he thinks he feels something crack. He clutches his side and crumples to the ground, feeling a sharp, agonizing pain spread under his fingertips. His eyes widen and he bites back a sob because he’s never been this fucking scared, never been this fucking powerless in his _life_. He tries to scramble up once, but his legs aren’t working and he just slips and falls into himself, falls painfully against the brick wall again.

The man comes at Sergio and he flinches, not knowing what to expect. He covers his head with his arms, but what connects is nowhere near his face. Instead, the man roughly kicks Sergio in the stomach, hard boots digging in until he’s completely lost his breath, until he can feel absolutely nothing but burning pain in his torso, until he’s unaware that the man kicks him again and again and then twice in his side for good measure too.

Sergio doubles over, grasping at his body for shielding anywhere he can and it hurts so much more than hunger ever did that he’s left whimpering on his side. He can practically see black creeping in at the edge of his vision, the pain is so overwhelmingly sharp.

“Don’t let me _ever_ see you bring your cocksucking lowlife slut of a boyfriend around here again, disgusting fucking _fag_. Your kind’s trash. Next time I’ll fucking leave your body where it belongs.” 

The man stomps on Sergio’s leg and grinds down on it. Sergio cries out in pain and the man spits smugly in his face before he leaves, muttering a string of curse words under his breath as he goes. 

Sergio lays motionless for a few seconds, trying to hold back tears of pure, abject fear and from the pain that’s sliding through his body. He can roughly feel the warmth of blood somewhere and bruises are flowering beneath his clothes. His ribs rub painfully against each other and somewhere, something inside of him grinds together in breathless, jarring pain as he breathes in and out. He bites back multiple sobs. Doesn’t let himself cry. 

 

It takes him nearly fifteen minutes to untangle his limbs, to force them to move, but he finally manages to pull himself up to his knees and then, using the brick wall, to his feet. He clutches at his side and can feel the electric shocks of pain flaring up all across his body. He can’t stand up straight. 

Sergio thinks that maybe he can hobble home. 

But first he leans over one of the trash cans and empties out what little food he had in his stomach to begin with.


	8. Xabi; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _IV. Xabi; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 6,552  
>  **Chapter Ships:** Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Mesut Ozil/Sami Khedira if you reaaally want it to be there  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**IV. Xabi**   
_the time has come to make things right_   


When Xabi wakes up, it’s to sunlight streaming in rather strongly through the window. He winces a little, noting that the morning has mostly passed and it’s much later than his usual. He wishes he had an excuse for it, but he finds none. Instead he shifts under the cover and wraps his arm around the shoulder of the warm body next to him. He smiles as the body stirs and shifts, turning from its side to its back so that, suddenly, Xabi can see a face. 

“Good morning,” Stevie says with a sleepy smile and reaches up for his morning kiss.

“It’s long past that,” Xabi laughs quietly, but he leans down and meets his boyfriend’s lips anyway. 

“Always too early for the morning,” Stevie groans as his eyes finally adjust to the light. He shakes his head pathetically and snakes an arm around Xabi’s bare waist so that he can pull the other man closer and bury his face in his neck. 

Xabi shakes his head, but smiles and presses a kiss to Stevie’s cheek. He lets Stevie pull him down and even lull him into a brief minute of such pure calm, that he’s afraid he’s going to fall asleep again.

“No,” he finally says, shaking his head. “No, I can’t.”

“Xaaabs,” Stevie whines and pushes his face even harder into Xabi’s neck, but the Andalucian simply shakes his head and extricates himself from the Englishman’s arms. 

“No, Stevie,” Xabi says, firmly. “I have too much to do, I can’t just lie in bed all day.”

Stevie lets out a little whine. It’s pathetic enough that Xabi hesitates. 

“You’re always working, Xabier,” Stevie pouts, completely on purpose, using Xabi’s full name in order to add endearment to his words. Xabi frowns. It’s working. As usual. 

“They’re not going to fight themselves,” Xabi replies instead, yawning and pushing himself up to a sitting position. Stevie immediately comes closer, locking arms around Xabi’s waist so that he can’t go anywhere. He rests his head against Xabi’s side and the other man sighs. “Stevie, you have to work too.”

Stevie shakes his head.

“Nope. Don’t wanna.”

“Stevie.”

“Nope.”

“ _Steven._ ”

That makes Stevie pause and sigh. The next thing Xabi knows, his waist is entirely too cold because the Scouser has released his waist and is now sitting up as well. 

“What a buzzkill,” Stevie says, yawning and finally stretching as well. He ignores Xabi’s frown and reaches over to the bedside table for something. He retrieves a paper and hands it over to Xabi. “Here. Morning paper.”

Xabi frown deepens and takes it from him.

“When did you get this?”

“Woke up earlier,” Stevie says, shrugging. He grins a little. “Thought I might make you breakfast in bed--”

Xabi blanches.

“—but I _didn’t_ , stop looking at me like that. Went out and got bagels instead. They’re cold now, but we can warm them up.”

Xabi’s face softens and he leans toward Stevie to give him a kiss.

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you, love,” Stevie says, smiling. He sneakily steals the sports section of the newspaper from Xabi and they both settle back onto their pillows to read in silence.

 

Xabi likes reading the newspaper after he wakes up. It’s soothing to him, the calm that he and Stevie share as he reads the headlines and politics sections of the newspaper and Stevie chuckles and scowls over how the teams in his league are doing—Xabi always knows when Liverpool is doing well and when it is doing poorly just based on how shallow or deep Stevie’s scowl is. He skims over headline news about Prince William and Kate Middleton’s impending marriage and he wonders, faintly, why this is still leading headlines when he’s almost certain he’s heard murmurings about North Korea advancing aggressions against South Korea. Sure, it isn’t as directly applicable to Andalucia as events on the Iberian Peninsula, but even the Portuguese strikes have become secondary to a royal wedding Xabi could care less about. Not that William and Kate do not deserve the wedding of their dreams, he’s sure. 

He is reading a small article about the strikes in Portugal, when his eyes drift over a bare blurb about King David and the royal family.

“He can’t be serious,” Xabi exhales, eyebrows furrowing. 

Stevie looks up from reading about the latest round of the Champions League games.

“What?”

Xabi motions for him to be quiet while he skims the rest of the blurb—which takes all of half a second, it’s so short—and then he flips through the rest of the paper with a disgusted, determined look on his face. His eyes skim faster and faster and he’s to the end of the paper within minutes. He blinks and folds it before throwing it across the room angrily.

“Xabs?” Stevie asks, concerned. He’s put his own section down carefully.

“He’s approved a pay raise for his board of advisors,” Xabi says, clearly angry. He turns to Stevie and his eyes are flashing. “The palace staff as well, but at least they deserve it. It seems as though he’s going to raise the wages for the first regiment as well, even though they haven’t been on active duty in years.”

Stevie frowns. 

“How is he managing this, we don’t have—”

“Exactly,” Xabi growls. “The reserves are drying up and the deficit is skyrocketing. I’m assuming he’s borrowing from the British government again because he’s also announced job cuts across the country.”

This makes Stevie shift suddenly from where he’s lying comfortably. 

“There was a round of cuts just a month ago.”

“This one’s twice as large, Stevie,” Xabi exhales. This time, he looks a little less angry and a little more weary. “No one can afford this. We’re barely making ends meet as it is.”

Stevie rests his chin on Xabi’s shoulder and is quiet for a moment, seemingly trying to work out something in his head. 

“Surely the unions will demonstrate.”

“They tried to under José and he shut down the largest one.” 

Stevie frowns again.

“I think I remember that. He squashed the protests too, didn’t he?”

“Sent out the first and second regiments of the royal guard,” Xabi says, shaking his head. His hand unconsciously finds Stevie’s, searching for some comfort to keep from being as upset as he is. 

“We could start,” Stevie says, chewing on his bottom lip as he thinks. 

“We’ve barely contacted the trade unions,” Xabi shakes his head again. “And Gerard needs time.”

“I’m sure Fabregas can convince him to speed things up,” Stevie grins.

That makes Xabi relax a little and he swats at his boyfriend’s head. 

“Even then.”

“We could protest?”

Now it’s Xabi’s turn to chew on his bottom lip. He stares at the white wall in front of them and thinks of the possible scenarios as Stevie traces his palm comfortingly.

“It will take time,” Xabi finally says. He drums his own fingers on top of Stevie’s. “It would be weeks in the making. We would have to be extremely discretionary about it. Send Cesc to his friends and different campuses.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Stevie says eagerly and presses a kiss to Xabi’s shoulder. For some reason, this makes Xabi hesitate, although it shouldn’t.

“There’s a chance he’ll send the military in to repress the dissent. I don’t know if we could survive that right now. It’s still too early,” Xabi worries. “And I don’t want to put anyone through that if I don’t have to.”

“Think he has the balls to do it?” Stevie asks with a wicked grin.

Xabi frowns. 

“I don’t think we should tempt fate, Steven.”

“Can I tempt you to stay in bed for the rest of the day?” Stevie asks then, rapidly changing subject and dipping his head to nip at Xabi’s pulse point.

That elicits a small groan from the younger man and he grips at Stevie’s side.

“I really need to work today,” he begins.

Stevie nips again, a little harder this time.

“I’ll make you work all right, Alonso,” he murmurs, grinning. 

“I need to make pamphlets,” Xabi continues although his voice is oddly strained. 

Stevie licks up his throat. 

“….check in with Cesc about the campus movement.”

Stevie halts under Xabi’s jaw, kissing down the strong line with just enough teeth for it to be teasing.

“…………try to arrange a meeting with the trade union—”

Stevie drags his tongue and teeth up Xabi’s chin and covers the younger man’s mouth with his own.

“You talk so fucking much, Xabs.”

Xabi groans.

“God.”

“God has nothing to do with it,” Stevie grins, clearly sensing victory within reach.

Xabi barely manages to say “Fine, but only for a litt—” before Stevie’s straddling him again, sheets sliding off his back and hands wandering south.

“Mmm democracy,” Stevie says hotly before gripping hard and licking into Xabi’s somewhat indignant mouth.

 

Xabi finally manages to appease Stevie and extricate himself from the other man by promising that he’ll come home early and won’t miss dinner this time. 

“You know it’s really fucked up that you get home later than I do, don’t you?” Stevie asks, quirking an eyebrow as he adjusts his tie. It’s still crooked and he frowns as he struggles with it.

Xabi smiles and comes up behind Stevie, gently turns him around and reaches up to untie and properly redo the tie so that it looks professional and not lopsided. 

“That’s because you don’t like to stay after hours with your partners,” he says as he measures the two sides of the tie so that the proper side is longer than the other. 

“Why stay with those arses when I have such a hot man to come home to?” Stevie grins. His efforts are rewarded with a laugh, although he doesn’t seem to get the kiss he’s seeking. He pouts. 

“And you’re damn good at what you do, so you don’t have to stay longer than necessary,” Xabi smiles. He loops one end of the tie around the other and neatly crosses it through appropriately. Stevie holds his chin up so that Xabi can position it correctly. 

“Nah, I just work with idiots,” Stevie says, smiling. He lets Xabi finish readjusting his tie to make sure that it’s perfect before he wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him closer. “And you’re absolutely obsessed with this movement of yours.”

Xabi shakes his head in return and rests his hands on Stevie’s arms. The Englishman leans close for a kiss and Xabi acquiesces readily. 

“Mmm if you weren’t so hot, this would so be a problem, Alonso,” Stevie murmurs against Xabi’s lips. 

For his part, Xabi squeezes Stevie’s arms and quickly swipes his tongue across bottom lips before pulling back.

“Just start sleeping with one of your interns and we’ll call it even,” Xabi says and presses a kiss to the underside of Stevie’s chin. 

“Well Kuyt _is_ pretty fucking cute.”

“That’s not even how you pronoun—”

“Shhhhh.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” Xabi chuckles.

“God. So many months now, Xabs.”

Xabi laughs and shoves Stevie away, although not before Stevie manages to press another firm kiss to his lips. 

“I’ll be a little late today, love.” 

“I thought I was coming home early,” Xabi frowns.

“The case is trickier than I thought I would be. I have a stack of depositions to read because the interns don’t have two brain cells to rub together,” Stevie shakes his head. “And Carra wants to drop by the police department to see if they have the files ready.”

“How much money did this man embezzle?” Xabi asks. He brushes off Stevie’s shoulders and straightens his suit so that he looks perfectly impeccable. 

“More than this entire neighborhood makes in a year. It’s disgusting.”

Xabi sighs, feels that familiar disappointment settling into his stomach when he realizes how much of an upward battle everything seems to be these days.

“Come to the office tomorrow? Gerard wanted to talk to you about something.”

Stevie rolls his eyes as he skirts around Xabi to find his briefcase.

“How many times is he going to come up with something that’s already been copyrighted?”

“He’s trying,” Xabi says, frowning.

“You’re just lucky I don’t want you to face a lawsuit, love,” Stevie smiles as he picks up his briefcase and pockets his keys from the bedside table. 

“I’m lucky for more reasons than that,” Xabi says and pulls Stevie in for one last kiss. Stevie’s movements halt and so does Xabi’s and they stand still like that for a minute, lost in one another’s presence and a kiss that’s so familiar and comfortable that it makes time stand still just long enough for them to remember that they don’t have to rush all the time.

But then the clock starts ticking again.

“Mmmm. Thanks,” Stevie smiles as he pulls away. “Want me to pick up dinner?”

“No, I’ll make it.” 

“Lasagna?”

Xabi makes a face.

“That stuff will kill you—”

Stevie grins and pecks at his lips really quickly.

“As long as I’m with you, handsome.”

When he pulls away, Xabi looks a little flustered, or maybe a little pleased, and he’s left wondering how he ever survived without that man, that beautiful, gorgeous, intelligent, caring man. He takes a minute to collect himself before walking to the closet and finding his own suit for the day.

 

Xabi _has_ a car. Stevie makes enough that, for them, money has never been an actual issue. But he doesn’t like to _take_ his car, is the only problem. It has nothing to do with the fact that Stevie bought it for him or that gas prices have skyrocketed in recent months. It has everything to do with the very principle of the matter, and the _principle_ of the matter is that not everyone can afford cars—in fact most people cannot. And as leader of the Andalucian People’s Democratic Front, Xabi feels more than hypocritical traveling in luxury when so many in the constituency he seeks to represent can barely afford to look at one.

Stevie says he doesn’t particularly care that Xabi insists on taking the bus or the train to work, but, then again, Stevie also doesn’t particularly care that Xabi’s work is entirely wageless and that he has to earn money for both of them. Stevie is an angel, Xabi thinks often, except for when he’s using that mouth of his and then angel isn’t exactly the proper term to use on the Englishman who moved to Andalucia just to be with him. 

Xabi reads a current analysis on the economic state of the Andalucian kingdom as he waits on the train for his stop. The statistics are so horrendously depressing that he actually has to set aside his material and spend the rest of the ride trying not to be too unduly annoyed by the child next to him who insists on poking him every few minutes just to see if he will react. 

When his stop finally comes, Xabi stands up, straightens his suit, and leaves the train gratefully and not simply because he’s more comfortable when he’s closer to starting on his work. 

The building the APDF is stationed in is an unassuming one, a small white office tucked into the corner of a small white building tucked into the corner of a street that is overrun with old offices and stores of the more supply-nature. Their next door neighbor is a supply store that has been there for decades, owned by the same family for decades, although traffic has slowed as of late and every time Xabi stops by to chat with the owner, he looks grimmer and sadder. Across the street is a sweet little French café attached to a book store that is so reminiscent of the one in Beauty and the Beast that Xabi often has to remind himself not to reveal to the rest of his colleagues that Stevie has, in fact, made him watch that movie. 

He steps past a stationary store and one dedicated to repairing watches before he sees his little white corner building and he smiles because there’s a small boy rapping on the door and trying to look in through the window. 

“Guys? Hello? Please to be opening the door? I am here.” The boy frowns and swipes at his black hair which is too short to actually require a haircut, but long enough that it falls into his eyes when he’s frustrated. He’s frustrated a lot, but Xabi supposes that isn’t Mesut’s fault.

He moves a little faster and extracts his key from his pocket. He jingles it a little to get the boy’s attention. His efforts are rewarded when Mesut turns his head and spots him.

“Mr. Alonso!” 

“Xabi,” Xabi smiles and steps toward Mesut and the door. “Did you forget your keys again, Mesut?”

Mesut frowns and chews on his bottom lip before gesturing up at the window.

“I am left it on my desk because I have asked to speak to internet technician. And Gerard having said he will open door but now he is not.”

Xabi nods, understanding the young man completely, although that’s more from experience now than anything else. 

“Of course not,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. He puts his key into the lock and twists it until the click sounds and then he turns the doorknob. “Did you say that the internet wasn’t working again?”

“Yes,” Mesut nods, following Xabi into the building. “Cesc is saying either wires are cut or bill are not paid.”

“Hmm.” Xabi is certain he remembers paying the internet provider, but money has been so tight at headquarters recently that he actually wouldn’t be completely surprised if that was the case. Especially given who he had, for some reason, assigned the task of paying the bill. Pique probably stuck the check in the middle of a magazine and forgot about it. “Did you speak to them?”

“Yes,” Mesut bobs his head. “And they are making exception for the once this time. But now having threatened with lawsuit if not paying next week.”

Xabi sighs and adds it to the mental checklist he carries around with him everywhere. 

“Thank you, Mesut. I will make sure that they receive their check this time.”

Mesut smiles gratefully and nods while Xabi pushes the door open. Then he speaks again.

“Mr. Alonso—”

“Xabi,” he corrects again.

“Mr. Xabi, I have made corrections from your editing marks,” Mesut says as they stop to check their personal mail cubbies on the way to the main area. “I am thinking the colors are not what we are wanting, but I will have tried more ummm … variation?”

“Try as many as you would like, Mesut,” Xabi smiles at the young man kindly. “Did Gerard update your version of Photoshop?”

“No,” Mesut frowns.

Xabi exhales.

“Of course not. Well he has the newest version. Tell him to install it onto your desktop, Xabi’s orders.”

Mesut’s head bobs up and down again and he gives Xabi a grateful little smile before disappearing down the hallway to where the computer station is. 

No sooner does he leave then another short young man appears at Xabi’s elbow. This one is far less shy and Xabi only realizes who he is when small arms wrap around him enthusiastically.

“Xabiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Alon _soooooooooooooooooooo_!”

“...what’s the bad news?” Xabi asks automatically, although it’s with the quirk of a smile.

The young man look offended.

“I don’t _always_ have bad news for you!”

“You _always_ have bad news for me, Cesc,” Xabi chuckles. He takes out a few envelopes from his cubby and walks toward the conference room where he knows he’ll find Arbeloa and Silva. He has a few statements he needs to extract from them before he can sit down with Gerard and Mesut. 

There’s a pause.

“Okay, well that’s probably true,” Cesc says, cocking his head. “But not this time! I have good news this time! Great news!”

“And what’s that?”

“Geri is taking me out to dinneeeer.”

Xabi raises an eyebrow.

“Cesc.”

“It’s at the Mediterranean restaurant I’ve been wanting to go to!”

“Cesc.”

“Didn’t Stevie take you there last month? What should I get? Is a salad too girly? What _is_ falafel, really? Did you think the kebabs were goo—”

“ _Francesc._ ”

Cesc looks up at Xabi with innocent eyes and flutters his eyelashes before sighing. 

“Okay, fine. I have some bad news too. The _Daily Andalus_ is too afraid of His Royal Idiot silencing it to run the article Alvaro wrote.”

Xabi frowns.

“That was necessary.”

“I know, but they’re being a bunch of pussies.”

“Cesc.”

“—sorry, they’re being a bunch of whiny brats,” Cesc says and crosses his arms. Then he brightens. “But on the other hand, David Villa says he’ll sit down with you tomorrow!”

That makes Xabi feel a little better at least. He breathes a sigh of relief as they round the corner and see the light on in the conference room. 

“How many unions have allied with him?”

“…….ummmmmmm 20.”

“Cesc.”

“34?”

“Cesc.”

“127.”

“ _Francesc._ ”

“Okay, fine. Two.” Cesc looks a little put out, although Xabi can’t tell if it’s because of the news or because Xabi refused to appease him. 

“Not ideal,” he says, frowning again. 

“Not terrible though,” Cesc says, shrugging. “We could have done worse and Villa says he’ll talk to some of the smaller ones. Every one helps, right?”

“Yeah,” Xabi agrees.

Their conversation quiets as they enter the somewhat small, somewhat cramped conference room. There is a white board on one end of the room that’s been filled with small, scrawled writing. Different propaganda posters and news clippings from the past two years cover nearly every inch of the wall and a flurry of papers, pencils, pens, paperclips, highlighters, and empty coffee cups litter the large conference table in the middle. 

From one end, Albiol looks up and waves goofily before returning to whatever he was typing on his laptop. Next to him, Arbeloa is marking something down on a newspaper article. When he hears footsteps he looks up.

“Xa-aaaaaabi, chico you’re late!” he says brightly, waving around his highlighter. 

“Late morning,” Xabi smiles, picking through a stack of papers that are on the table in front of him.

“Yeah? And a late night and a late afternoon?” Arbeloa raises an eyebrow before both he and Albiol dissolve into snickers behind Albiol’s computer screen.

Xabi tinges pink, but maintains his dignity.

“Funny, Alvaro. Maybe you can use some of that humor to push your article through?” 

“Ooooh boss is no-nonsense today,” Arbeloa grins, tapping his highlighter against his temple. He digs through a stack of papers beside the newspaper he’s working on and retrieves a piece. “Already tried. Their reply was and I quote—‘Thank you for your inquiry Senor Arbeloa. However at this time, we cannot accept articles of this kind due to the interrogative and accusatory tone it seems to have. While your writing is of high journalistic caliber, the content proves incompatible with our paper at this time.’”

“Maybe I’m taking the wrong classes, but isn’t journalism _supposed_ to be interrogative?” Cesc asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stretches up to look at a new article that’s been taped hastily to the wall. 

“That’s what they taught us, mate, but apparently they’ve changed the definition since I graduated,” Arbeloa smirks.

Xabi simply sighs and pushes through the pile of paper he’s already ruffling through. 

“Just try calling them, Alvaro. You’re good at speaking to people until they give you what they want.”

“Yeah, because he doesn’t shut up until they do,” Albiol giggles to Arbeloa’s side. Arbeloa jabs Albiol sharply in the side which only makes the shorter man giggle even harder.

“Dios mio, I’m working with a room full of school girls,” Xabi says, shaking his head. He picks up a few papers he finds necessary before looking back up at the room. “Just call them, Alvaro. I’m sure you can work something out. I would rather not weaken your article, but if need be—well, do what you can at any rate. I trust you.”

“Si, capitán!”

“Where’s Silva?” he asks after nodding his approval at Arbeloa. 

“Sucking face with Vi—” Albiol begins but he just turns his head and snickers into Arbeloa’s shoulder when Xabi gives him a warning look. For his part, Arbeloa swats at his friend’s head but grins anyway.

“Seeing if we can get advertisers, I think? I haven’t seen him all day, but that’s what he was working on yesterday.”

“Any luck?” 

“One or two bites, but mostly everyone is afraid,” Arbeloa says and this time it’s with a frown. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but something catches his attention in the article and he bends over again with his highlighter and an “ _Oh_!”

“Gracias, Alvaro,” Xabi thanks him for the update before turning to leave the room. Cesc is at his elbow again. 

“I don’t know what there is to be afraid of,” the younger man says, shaking his head. “As far as I can tell, King David has no balls.”

“That’s what Stevie’s been saying,” Xabi replies through pursed lips. He thinks that he shouldn’t be as amused as he is because that leads to a false sense of security and that isn’t what any of them need right now. 

“I’m not just saying it because I’m cocky!” Cesc says. He peeks in through various rooms on the way to their destination. “Logically, I mean. He wasn’t expecting to come to power, he’s barely old enough to change his own diapers, he’s spent the last twenty seven years vacationing in Ibiza and chasing girls.”

“He’s been trained though, Cesc,” Xabi points out. He hears computer keys firing away as they approach the graphics room. “And he’s not unintelligent, simply inexperienced.”

“He doesn’t look like he has two brain cells to rub together,” Cesc snorts. “Maybe if it was the younger one. He looks scarier.”

“That’s because Prince Fernando doesn’t smile enough for you,” Xabi comments with a smile of his own.

Cesc waves the comment away as they enter the room. It’s another small, somewhat cramped room although it looks as though it would have plenty of space if there weren’t half a dozen small computers shoved into every corner. A few of them are empty, but Xabi can see Mesut working at his usual. The young Turk looks up and beams, waving at the two of them.

Hovering over him and his computer with a goofy look on his face is a veritable giant who is taking the few seconds Mesut has been distracted to flick him in the ears.

“Ow!” Mesut yelps and the giant covers his mouth, giggling.

“Pique,” Xabi sighs.

Gerard looks up. When he sees who it is, his face immediately lights up.

“Geeeeeeeriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” Cesc immediately cries and launches himself across the small, crowded room toward Pique.

“Ceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesc!” Pique cries in return and, arms outstretched, catches the smaller man and lifts him up. Cesc immediately wraps his arms around Pique’s neck and latches his legs around his waist so that he looks a bit like a little monkey clambering up an enormous tree.

Pique grins and nuzzles Cesc’s face and, behind them, Mesut gives Xabi strange looks.

Xabi laughs at the display, although it’s really so utterly affectionate that it’s heartwarming. 

“It’s been _ages_!” Cesc whines and buries his face into Pique’s neck. “Practically _years_.”

“I saw you a half an hour ago, stupid!” Pique says, flicking Cesc’s nose with one hand as his other arm wraps firmly around his back.

“ _Exactly_!” Cesc declares dramatically. “ _Ages_. You’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you? You’ve moved on and now you’re having an affair with _Mesut_ I knew you liked turkey too much!”

Behind him, Mesut looks stricken.

“I have not having affair—”

“Nooooooooo,” Pique insists and presses kisses all over Cesc’s chin. “I just uhhhhhh wanted to uhhhhhhh surprise you with uhhhhhhhhh—”

There’s a pause as he struggles to think of actual, real words. He comes up with nothing. Typical.

Then Cesc laughs at swats at Pique’s face before letting go of his arm and waist and climbing down.

“You’re so dumb, PK.”

“Hey!” Pique looks offended but Cesc just beams up at him and reaches up on tiptoes for a kiss. The giant looks confused for a second before shrugging and bending down to give him one.

“And I wonder why you never get anything done,” Xabi finally says, interrupting their theatrics.

“Hey boss,” Pique grins sheepishly. “Have a nice morning?”

“And afternoon,” Cesc giggles.

Xabi sighs, much aggrieved, but he really has nothing to say in reply. It’s his own fault for letting Stevie convince him to stay in bed past time and, really, their own faults for being so open and obvious about their relationship in the office. He hardly ever lives it down.

“Gerard, were you able to finish those pamphlets?” he asks as he sits down in front of an empty computer to log on. He hasn’t checked his email since the afternoon before and he’s almost afraid to check it now, knowing how many will be in there waiting for him. 

“Which ones?” Pique asks. His voice sounds distracted, but Xabi doesn’t bother looking up from his monitor.

“The ones Cesc is taking with him to Universidad de Andalucia—”

“Is that the one outside of town?”

“I think so? Cesc, that was your responsibility which is it—”

Xabi suddenly hears a high-pitched shriek and he turns around quickly, startled. Only to find Pique holding a wriggling Cesc who is trying futilely to avoid his tickling fingers. 

“ _Gerard_!” Xabi’s eyes flash. He’s mostly lenient with his colleagues, but even he has his limits and his patience is wearing thin today with these two.

“Sorry, sorry,” Pique quickly apologizes through laughter and lets go of Cesc. Cesc scrambles out of his grasp and hides behind a Mesut who is trying fruitlessly to finish his assignment.

“Y-yes, that one,” Cesc says breathlessly, cowering behind the Turk. 

“Oh, yeah, I just need you to look over the final copy,” Pique nods. He waits until Xabi glances back at his screen and clicks into his email before flashing Cesc an evil grin. 

“Put it on my desk,” Xabi says and frowns as he scrolls through the list of unread emails. Most of them are registrations from students and laborers to the APDF listserv and emails inquiring about how the movement is planning on dealing with various issues. A lot of the emails are personal; hold personal stories that Xabi can’t read without feeling his heart stop in his throat. It’s getting worse by the day. 

“Got it—hey, did you get a chance to talk to Stevie?” Pique asks as he finally settles down at his own computer. 

“Hmm?” Xabi clicks into the email copy of the letter the Daily Andalus sent to Arbeloa and sighs. “Yes, he won’t be in tonight, but maybe tomorrow.”

“Which phone does he check? He never picks up my calls,” Pique pouts as he spins around once in his wheeley chair. 

“He has work, Gerard. He uses his phone for business calls only.”

“He doesn’t even answer your calls?” Cesc asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s now sitting on the edge of Mesut’s desk and peering down at the graphics the younger boy is making.

“No.”

“That’s fucked up,” Pique says and Cesc nods in agreement.

“No, it is _professional_ ,” Xabi replies. He sighs and logs out of his email before standing up. “I really needed to speak with Silva. Will you tell him to come find me once he gets in?”

“Aye aye, boss!” Cesc and Pique say simultaneously. 

“I will probably be on the phone with Villa and Puyol all afternoon. Just knock on the door if you need me?” Xabi stretches slightly and walks toward the door as all three heads in the room nod in unison.

“Will you be having same lunch, Mr. Xabi?” he hears Mesut’s voice just as he’s about to exit. Xabi turns around and gives him a kind smile.

“Not today, Mesut. I’ve already eaten—”

“ _I bet you have_ ,” Pique says lowly and Cesc buries his face in his hands, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide snickers. 

“— _but_ , feel free to order dinner for everyone, my treat,” Xabi finishes and glares in the direction of his two most useless colleagues. “Except for these two. They can fend for themselves quite well, it seems.”

Cesc and Pique immediately start protesting and as Xabi turns toward the door to walk out, he sees Mesut flash him an unabashedly amused grin.

 

The afternoon passes by rather quickly as Xabi takes phone call after phone call from the labor unions and some of the academic networks that Cesc has been able to contact for him. For every phone call he gets from Villa, he seems to get another phone call from Puyol who argues the exact opposite. At some point, he gets so fed up with both of them that he puts them on three-way and lets them argue it out until Cesc knocks on the door and peeks his head in to make sure Xabi hasn’t developed multiple personalities and lost it. 

By the time dark falls outside, he feels a little accomplished, but mostly frustrated. It seems to him that the more people he speaks with, the more papers he contacts, the more unions and intellectuals who fall in line with his ideology, the farther he has to go, the more he has to do. It has been a little under two years now and he has nothing to show for it except for a ridiculously loyal staff, a few thousand pamphlets, and connections to a few dozen universities across the country. Maybe that _is_ progress—maybe that is how it starts—but he’s impatient and the longer he waits, the worse the country becomes and he has no faith in King David’s ability to rule. 

He hears a knock on his door as he finishes his reply to an email from the office of José Sócrates, the leader of the Portuguese _Partido Socialista_. The email is a difficult one to type if only because King José had banned all communications with the Portuguese Socialist Party near the end of his reign. They were too influential within Andalucia and that in and of itself threatened the sole authority the monarchy attempted to have within the kingdom. Xabi wasn’t sure what King David’s stance on it was or, indeed, if he even knew that his father had done that, but he didn’t want to risk it and neither did Sócrates. Their communications were kept to a minimum, but José’s office did have some important pieces of information and suggestions for him and in any case, they made a strong alliance should it come to it. 

“Mr. Xabi?” Mesut asks tentatively and sticks his head around the door. 

“Yes, Mesut?” Xabi looks up from his email. Suddenly he realizes how long he’s been sitting in his seat; how long it’s been since he’s even moved. He sighs and stretches his arms above him.

“I am going out to getting everyone dinner, this is okay?” 

Xabi smiles.

“You really should let them do their dirty work for themselves sometimes, Mesut.”

Mesut shakes his head with a smile.

“I am liking to do it and Sami is going with.”

“Oh, he’s returned?” Xabi asks, surprised. 

Xabi knows very little of the young man apart from the fact that he had moved with his family to Andalucia from Germany for reasons he was mostly quiet about. He seemed like a fun young man with a decent head on his shoulders—which was more than Xabi could say for most of his staff, sadly—but Cesc was the one who had recruited him from his university campus and he mostly worked with Cesc in initiating contact with various student groups across the country. As far as he can tell, Cesc told him to work on some project and Xabi hasn’t seen him in a week or two as a result. 

“Yes!” Mesut beams.

“Tell him to stop by tomorrow. I’d like to chat with him.”

Mesut bobs his head up and down in a manner that is typically him.

“Would I get you something, Mr. Xabi? We are getting Chinese because of—”

“Because it’s Arbeloa’s favorite,” Xabi nods, smiling. He stands up and twists at the hips so that he can get some circulation in his body, although the movement upsets his nice shirt, his suit jacket long since hanging on the back of his chair. “No, no thank you, Mesut. I actually promised Steven I would come home early and make him dinner.”

That makes Mesut smile.

“Mr. Steven is coming tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, he should be by tomorrow.” Xabi bites back a wider smile at that. Truthfully, his favorite days are when Stevie drops by their headquarters. It’s more than the additional time they get to spend together—it’s how much it proves that Stevie believes in him, believes in the movement. Somehow his belief itself makes Xabi think that his efforts aren’t in vein. Besides, it’s nice to have him around for lunch. ...and dessert.

“Wonderful, telling him I said hi! Enjoy dinnering!” Mesut waves at Xabi before disappearing out the door.

Xabi takes that as his cue that he should cease working for the day. Dark has long since fallen outside and he knows that if he gets caught up in other projects, he won’t be home until long after Stevie is and Xabi doesn’t like to break his promises. So he shrugs on his jacket and shuts down his computer. He rearranges the papers on his desk so that they’re neater than they were before and leaves a few post-it note reminders for phone calls he has to make and emails he has to send tomorrow before turning off his desk lamp and leaving his office. 

He hears loud laughter from the conference room so he decides to stick his head in before leaving.

Sure enough, his entire staff is there. Albiol and Arbeloa seems to not have moved in hours and Pique is drawing crude pictures on the white board while Cesc is sitting casually on the table, chewing on a donut and having an animated conversation with Nasri and Van Persie.

“Don’t stay too late,” Xabi smiles fondly at his student staffers. 

Most of them grin and wave at him, but, of course, Arbeloa has to comment.

“Don’t wait too late this time,” he says, winking and grinning. 

The room dissolves into snickers and Xabi pointedly ignores the fact that it makes him turn red. 

“Get out of here, you’re here too much,” Pique says, wrinkling his face.

“Yeah, we’re getting sick of you,” Cesc agrees and throws a paper airplane at Xabi’s head.

Xabi ducks, grinning, and waves once more before slipping out into the hallway and then past the door into the outside world again.


	9. Xabi; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _IV. Xabi; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 6,012  
>  **Chapter Ships:** Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, mentioned Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**IV. Xabi**   
_the time has come to make things right_   


The kitchen is absolutely stocked with all of the necessary ingredients for lasagna, surprisingly enough. Xabi had suffered through a moment of panic when he had realized that he hadn’t bought supplies for dinner and had already reached home, but every single piece was in its place. He has a sneaking suspicion that Stevie has been planning this longer than he can possibly fathom and that somehow, as usual, he’s simply played into the Englishman’s hand. He shakes his head in endeared exasperation and begins assembling the ingredients and constructing what he considers to be one of the leading causes of heart disease around the world. 

By the time Xabi hears the door open, the lasagna is in its final minutes and the table has been set for two—two plates nestled close together, wine glasses sitting next to an unopened bottle, napkins folded neatly into the center of the plates and two candles lit in the middle of it all. The setting is intimate, carefully balanced, perfect. Xabi smiles and feels a certain sense of accomplishment unrelated to where he usually focuses his talents.

“Xabs?” Stevie’s voice comes from the foyer. 

Xabi smiles immediately, his heart settling comfortably into his chest just to hear that voice. It’s a bit like coming home from the longest day of work, only he’s been home for some time already.

“In the kitchen,” he replies quietly. 

There’s a rustling as Stevie takes of his jacket and hangs it in the coat closet and kicks off his shoes. Then the door to the kitchen opens and Xabi sees the face he’s missed the most the entire day. 

“Hey, handsome,” Stevie smiles, immediately moving toward Xabi. 

Xabi is pulled toward him, almost gravitationally, and his hands frame Stevie’s face as they greet each other with a kiss.

“Hola,” he says, smiling softly. “Busy day?”

“I was seconds away from going completely mad,” Stevie nods and leans forward for another kiss. “Missed you, love.”

“Yeah,” Xabi agrees. 

Xabi isn’t usually one for declarations of affection. He prefers to be intimate through actions; small touches when they are needed the most or a kiss when the timing is perfect. He prefers _showing_ Stevie how much he means to him, prefers to surprise him with breakfast in bed or simply staying in too long on a Sunday morning, rolling over, and burying his face into his shoulder. 

Stevie is good about it. Sometimes he likes the grand gestures, the bold declarations, but in the end all he ever seems to want is Xabi and he doesn’t particularly care how he gets it. So, sometimes, when Stevie says _I love you_ or _I miss you_ or _I couldn’t live without you_ , Xabi says it back because he isn’t one for declarations, but for Stevie he can always make an exception. 

“It smells incredible in here,” Stevie says, wrapping an arm around Xabi’s waist. Xabi lets the Englishman pull him closer, although he doesn’t move his hands from his cool face. 

“One heart attack in a dish, just as you requested.”

“Mmm.” Then he grins. “What’s for dessert?” 

Xabi quirks a smile.

“What do you want?”

“I could think of a few things,” Stevie says and buries his face into Xabi’s neck so that he can nibble into the skin there. “Most of them involve the kitchen table, that pretty little apron you’re wearing, and very little else.”

Xabi laughs and pushes Stevie away. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Stevie goes upstairs to shower and change into more comfortable clothes. In the meantime, Xabi takes the lasagna out of the oven and checks to make sure the mousse he’s made as a surprise—he can be impulsive too—is setting well in the refrigerator. It will probably be runny—less than perfect; it hurts Xabi’s heart just the tiniest bit to think about it, so he doesn’t—given how little time it’s had to set, but he doubts that Stevie will care. By the time that Stevie makes it back into the kitchen, Xabi has everything ready on the table and is sitting in his seat, apron off, and reading a book. 

“Tell me that you’re reading something for fun, Xabs. Your reading material is so depressing these days,” Stevie says as he settles in his seat across from Xabi.

Xabi marks his place in the book and gets up to put it on the kitchen counter so as not to be rude at the dinner table.

“Orhan Pamuk’s latest, actually.”

“He’s the bloke who wrote that _Snow_ book you were reading for ages, yeah?” 

Xabi nods and stands beside the bottle of wine so that he can open and pour it into their goblets before they begin eating.

“It was fascinating. Brilliantly written. I have it on my desk if you ever get bored and need something to read.”

“My taste is more football mags, but if Carra ever lets me have a night off and you refuse me, I’ll think about it,” Stevie grins. He holds his goblet out for Xabi as the other man pours and then he swirls it around a little before taking a small sip. “Mmm. This is a good one. New?”

“Gift from Jesús from the last time he visited, actually. I found it when I was looking for something suitable.”

“Ahh. How is he, anyway? I haven’t heard from him in ages.” Stevie raises his glass in a toast as Xabi settles in his chair and takes his own goblet. The Andalucían leans forward and clinks his goblet against Stevie’s and they both drink. 

“I think he’s doing well. As far as I can tell, he’s training with the church. Wants to be a priest.”

“That’ll be good for him,” Stevie nods. However, notices a tension in Xabi’s shoulders that weren’t there before. “Something the matter, love?”

Xabi simply shrugs before reaching forward to cut the lasagna to serve.

“He’s training with Hodgson’s church. He was evasive enough when I tried to ask him about it, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out.”

Suddenly Stevie understands.

“Thanks,” he says as Xabi sets a slice of lasagna on his place. “You can’t blame him for that though, Xabs. He doesn’t want to serve them, just his god.”

“I know,” Xabi sighs and serves himself as well. “I just wish he could have found somewhere else. It makes me nervous for him.”

“For him or for yourself?” Stevie raises an eyebrow as he doles out salad onto both of their plates.

Xabi gives Stevie a severe look.

“I’m not worried about myself or the movement, Steven. That church has a lot of sway over the royal family and vice versa. I’ve never trusted Hodgson, none of his addresses to the people have ever made a bit of sense. He’s the worst kind of evangelical Catholic in my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Stevie shrugs. He digs his fork into his lasagna first, ignoring the green mass of leaves that’s staring up at him healthily. “He can take care of himself though. Seems to have a good head on his shoulders, that kid. Plus I’ve never seen anyone so outrageously religious.”

“You haven’t met Ricardo,” Xabi chuckles. Unlike his boyfriend, _Xabi_ begins with his salad. 

“You know too many people,” Stevie shakes his head. “Mmm this is so fucking good, Xabi.”

“You think so?” Xabi grins and cuts off a little piece of lasagna with his fork. “Strangely enough, all of the ingredients were sitting there, practically waiting for me to use . However, I don’t ever recall buying them.”

Stevie flashes Xabi an innocent look.

“Yeah? You don’t say.”

It doesn’t work. Xabi just shakes his head in incredulity and chews on a particularly cheesy bite.

“You’re definitely going to be the death of me,” he decides.

Stevie just grins and raises his glass of wine in toast.

 

They settle in for a quiet evening after dinner. Stevie chooses a game to watch on television and Xabi reads until Stevie’s gesturing and exclamations force him to bookmark his position. He doesn’t fold the corner of his book—that would be absurd, undignified, and completely unheard of—and winces when, after setting it on the coffee table, Stevie uses it as a coaster for his drink. 

Xabi shakes his head in exasperation and some measure of indignation and it isn’t until Stevie snakes a sneaky arm around his waist that he forgets that he was ever offended in the first place.

His head begins to droop onto Stevie’s shoulder at precisely ten o’ clock—Xabi’s internal close is, if nothing else, precise and consistent—and when Stevie quietly turns off the television and tugs him off the couch and up the stairs, Xabi complies with a sleepy smile.

 

Xabi hasn’t heard from Sergio in nearly three months. He tries to keep tabs on the younger man when he can, but it’s made difficult when Sergio so rarely wants to be found. He usually feels bad about it, mostly feels an enormous amount of guilt when Jesús calls him, but it’s not that he hasn’t tried contacting Sergio. It’s more that Sergio can’t be contacted if Sergio doesn’t want to be. So usually Xabi waits for the young man to come to him. It usually takes a while; longer than it should, considering, but he always makes it back. Xabi counts it as a blessing—maybe he can’t protect him, but he can be there when he needs him and is ready to admit it. 

When he wakes up that morning, he briefly wonders, as he usually does, where Sergio is and whether or not he’s well—is he healthy? Is he feeding himself properly? Is he, ah, being safe? 

He pulls on his robes and reads the note Stevie left him on the mirror and smiles. Dons his slippers and pads downstairs and begins making coffee and toast. He sits down to read the morning paper and gets halfway to page two when he hears a faint knocking on the door. 

Xabi frowns and looks up, wondering if he heard it properly or not. He waits for a second and when he hears nothing, he continues reading his paper. Then he hears another faint knock and the accompanied tinny sound of the doorbell. 

He blinks, sets the paper down neatly, and plods from the kitchen and through the hallway, coffee in hand, to the front door. 

“Who is it?” he asks politely and when he doesn’t get an answer, he opens the door with a frown.

“Hi,” Sergio says weakly. He looks like he’s trying to smile, but there are scrapes on his face and he’s clutching his torn and dirty shirt to a side that, Xabi can see, has flowered garish purple bruises. His skin is pale, almost sallow, and splotched with purple edged with green.

Xabi doesn’t even realize when he drops his coffee. It must have happened between opening the door and his eyes widening, because there’s a sudden crash and hot coffee spilling across the floor. Xabi doesn’t, to put it politely, give a fuck. He reaches forward and takes the younger, broken man into his arms.

“Oh my god. Oh my god Sergio, what happened? Sergio? Sergio talk to me, please.” Xabi—calm, collected, rational Xabi—tries desperately not to panic. His eyes, wide with horror and concern, correspond to the fear that grips his chest. He tries to quell it by swallowing hard, but his fingers tremble as he immediately reaches out to the younger man.

“Xabi. I’m fi—” Sergio begins and he seems almost as though he’s perfectly fine for three syllables. It’s the fourth syllable that gets him. His voice cracks and he shakes his head. He lets Xabi wrap his arms around his too-thin frame and what Xabi doesn’t expect are the hot tears and trembling young boy he has to gather from his doorstep and take inside.

 

Xabi sits on the couch holding onto Sergio for nearly an hour. Sergio can’t seem to let go of Xabi’s waist and not even the warmth that Xabi tries rubbing into his bruised arms helps stop the shaking. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the younger man look more fragile or vulnerable or _scared_. 

“Serge?” Xabi whispers, rocking Sergio back and forth in his arms. “Sergio what happened? Please talk to me, please Sergio.”

Sergio opens his mouth to say something but takes a shuddering breath and pushes his face harder into Xabi’s chest. His trembling increases and although he’s shaking his head as though this isn’t affecting him, as though he’s actually strong enough to gather his emotions and set them aside, Xabi can still feel tears wetting through his shirt.

It takes the better part of an hour before Sergio calms down enough for Xabi to pull away and look at him carefully. 

“Jesús Cristo, Sergio,” Xabi says softly. He runs his fingers down scrapes on Sergio’s face. “Who did this to you?”

“Some thug,” Sergio finally manages to say. His voice is trembling, but he looks a lot more stable than he had even a few minutes ago. “I was—”

Xabi stops from gently, gently pushing against Sergio’s rib when he hears the younger man take in a sharp breath and whimper a little.

“I’m sorry,” Xabi says, worry stringing his voice tight. He pulls his fingers away from Sergio’s ribs and helps unbutton his shirt instead so that he can fully examine all of the damages. 

“I was—Xabi, Xabi stop,” Sergio pleads and Xabi stops immediately and looks into those large eyes. Sergio looks so heartbreakingly small that Xabi’s own eyes tear up. “Xabi, I was so happy.” 

“What happened, chiquito?”

Sergio shakes his head and looks down at his hands.

“I was with someone. We were just spending time together and I—fuck, I really like him Xabi. I really fucking like him.” 

Xabi nods, running his fingers through Sergio’s hair. 

“I didn’t think he liked—I mean, I didn’t think he was,” Sergio begins and he can barely choke out the words, so Xabi murmurs soothingly, strokes his hair as though he’s a child. It seems to calm the younger man somewhat. “But he let me kiss him. …he kissed _me_. It was like—” Sergio swallows and his face looks so stricken that Xabi has to refrain from pressing soothing kisses to his cheeks and temples. “—hope, you know?”

Xabi looks at Sergio sympathetically, because he knows how long he’s been looking, because he knows how much Sergio has been through, how long he has been waiting for someone to make him feel and sound the way Xabi feels and sounds around Stevie. He thinks that there’s something to Sergio’s voice—something in the way he’s speaking—something that reminds Xabi of the first time he met Stevie. He wants the story to end happily, but he doesn’t know where the bruises or the—he suspects—broken rib fits in, so he waits. 

“I guess someone saw us,” Sergio finally says, continuing. He looks up at Xabi with a pained look in his eyes. “I guess he didn’t like what he saw.”

Something in Xabi’s stomach twists and he lets out a strangled noise. 

“This was a _hate crime_?” 

Sergio says nothing. Xabi can barely hear the quiet, pathetic sounds of the younger man trying to breathe without revealing his pain because his own breathing has picked up out of anger. 

“Because they saw you kissing another _man_?” 

Xabi stands up, absolutely livid. His blood is absolutely boiling; he would be seeing red if he was capable, although his vision blurs from anger anyway. Sergio must notice this because he immediately stands up and puts a hand on Xabi’s arm.

“Xabi please, fuck, I don’t know who it was. There’s no way we can find him—”

“We can report it to the police,” Xabi grinds out, fists clenched. He feels like the red-hot flames of his anger have licked up the oxygen in the room; it’s getting harder to breathe, although he doesn’t particularly care at the moment.

“What are the police going to do?” Sergio pleads and tightens his grip on the older man. “The police can’t do a fucking thing, Xabs, I didn’t really see who it was. Just that he was tall and dark and who the fuck isn’t here? They can’t do anything about it. They’ll just laugh about the pathetic little fag who got himself beaten up—”

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” Xabi says suddenly, gripping onto Sergio’s shoulders tightly, “ _ever_ call yourself a fag again.” 

Sergio whimpers slightly and Xabi realizes he must be hurting him. He lets go of his arms and wraps him in a hug again. 

“God, Serge, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, why didn’t you come to me earlier?” 

“I was having a hard time walking,” Sergio laughs a little bitterly, resting his forehead against Xabi’s shoulder again. “I would have gone home, but I don’t have a First Aid kit. And I think they turned my water off again.”

Xabi pauses and then buries his face into Sergio’s neck. He’s nearly shaking himself although from what—anger? concern? an aching heart?—he’s not completely sure yet.

“Fuck, Sergio. What are you doing to yourself? God, why don’t you just come and live with me and Stevie? You know he cares for you. You know how much _I_ love you.” 

Sergio laughs hollowly and shakes his head. He seems so tired in Xabi’s arms that Xabi’s surprised he hasn’t fallen asleep yet. 

“I just want a shower Xabi. And maybe a place to sleep for a few hours. Do you that’d be ok—”

“If you finish that sentence Sergio Ramos, I swear I will hold you hostage.”

Sergio laughs again, his voice paper-thin. Xabi shakes his head and pulls back.

“You remember where the shower is, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything you need is in there. I’m going to make you lunch, you look like you haven’t eaten anything in weeks. Do you need help up the stairs?” Xabi’s ready to escort Sergio up the stairs, but Sergio shakes his head.

“I’m not an invalid, Xabs, just a little battered. I’ll be fine.” 

Xabi looks uncertain so Sergio leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. His lips are dry and torn on Xabi’s smooth skin. There’s caked blood somewhere and Xabi’s heart nearly strains itself from worry.

“I promise.” 

Hands on his shoulder, staring firmly at him, Xabi finally nods and kisses Sergio’s forehead.

“Okay, chiquito.” 

He still isn’t sure—he’s still torn between debilitating anger and horrified worry; both mixing into one congealed mess of strained emotions at this point—but he has no choice but to trust Sergio for now. If nothing else, he knows that the younger man is safe so long as he’s under his roof. It doesn’t really stop Xabi from worrying, but he knows he can breathe just a little easier for now because of it.

 

He gets Sergio showered and fed before his phone goes off. He ignores it the first two or three times, but on the fourth buzz of texts, Sergio stirs from his makeshift bed on the couch.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and nearly closed with exhaustion. 

Xabi shakes his head and threads his fingers through Sergio’s hair. 

“I will, after you sleep,” he says in hushed tones. “Shhh, go to sleep now.”

Sergio seems like he’s about to protest, but his body and mind must be too worn thin to agree with one another. Instead, he lets his eyes flutter closed again, a very brief upturn at the corner of his lips appearing before his breathing starts evening out. 

“Okay. Thanks.”

He’s asleep within seconds, although Xabi waits a few minutes to make certain that he can breathe and he’s not in any additional physical pain before removing himself to the kitchen with his cell phone.

> **_7 Unread Messages_ **

He sighs before clicking into them. The first, from Mesut, is to assure him that the pamphlets have gone to the printers. The second and third, from Alvaro, rant about the continued idiocy of the editors at the _Daily Andalus_ , but end with the good news that he’s convinced one of them to run a truncated version of his interrogative piece on the failure of King David’s first extant policies. The fourth, from David Villa, complains about Puyol, as usual, and reminds Xabi of the arranged meeting for later in the week.

By the time he reaches Cesc’s text message, Xabi is already considering whether or not Sergio needs _all_ of the painkillers in his medicine cabinet; if he wouldn’t mind sparing an extra one or two for a much belabored, underappreciated pseudo-politician and lobbyist.

>   
> **_From:_** Francesc Fábregas  
>  ** _Sent:_** 7:52 am
> 
> did u get to the back of the paper this morning? like 10 students were arrested at u de a for protesting the edu cuts & tax raises. tiny piece, barely any details. what the fuck??
> 
> **_From:_** Francesc Fábregas  
>  ** _Sent:_** 8:10 am
> 
> ps did alvaro tell u the church increased its funding again? lol david’s going to have his work cut out for him when he realizes the royal army is only loyal to money. serves the fucker right.

Xabi frowns and refrains from massaging his temple. King David’s naïve acceptance of Hodgson’s money was the least of their worries, although it did present the growing threat of the church. Xabi was just as religious as the next Andalucían, but his firm belief in secularism in government was constantly undermined by the Torres dynasty’s irritatingly poor rule. More worrisome would be the army’s allegiance to the church, on top of their allegiance to the royal family, and the reactionary backlash the church would have to the movement should the Democratic front succeed.

Everything was a problem. Xabi could feel the years melt away from his shoulders and not in a particularly good way. 

He clicks into his last text message.

>   
> **_From:_** Guti  
>  ** _Sent:_** 8:23 am
> 
> behind the closed courthouse. 1 pm. delete this.

Xabi blinks, his breathing picking up, as he reads and then re-reads the message. He’s seized by panic for just a brief second before calm logic and rationality takes their normal hold again.

He doesn’t reply to Guti; knows the older man doesn’t need one. Instead, he—calmly—finds Steven’s number on speed dial. 

As a rule, Xabi never calls Steven at work. He has access to Steven’s Blackberry, but the nature of his profession makes it increasingly problematic for him to receive phone calls that aren’t from clients or his partners. Xabi, of course, respects this completely, although, to be honest, there’s never been anything so urgent that he couldn’t wait for Steven to come home. Today, however.

Xabi critically examines a bag of bread as he waits for his boyfriend to pick up. It only takes a few seconds.

“Xabs?” Xabi doesn’t even have to say anything; Stevie’s voice is immediately concerned. 

“I’m sorry to bother you at work,” Xabi says quickly, quietly. 

“Never apologize. I’m at lunch anyway. What’s wrong?”

Xabi’s quiet for just long enough for the urgency in Stevie’s voice to increase.

“Xabi? You’re giving me a heart attack here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Xabi apologizes and it’s only then that he realizes how actually _flustered_ he is. “Fuck, Stevie, I really hate to ask, but is there any way you can take the afternoon off?” 

He can almost hear Stevie’s frown over the phone.

“Of course I can. Anything for you. Tell me what’s going on, though.”

Xabi exhales, running fingers through ginger hair.

“I just got a text from Guti and Serge is battered on our couch.”

The silence that greets his sentence is just what he’s expecting.

“ _What_?” Stevie squawks, as though he’s not sure which part is more incredulous than the other. “Gutíerrez? Sergio? What the fu—?”

“I need to meet Guti,” Xabi interrupts, dropping his voice to a whisper. “But I can’t leave Serge alone he—fuck, he’s hurt Stevie. I can’t leave him alone, but I can’t miss this meeting, it might be the only one I can get and—”

“Xabs. Xabs, stop. I’m heading home now,” Stevie is as soothing as it is possible to be. “Just tell me later, when you’re ready.”

Xabi exhales again, although this time it’s in relief. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Steven. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.” 

“You’ll never have to find out,” Stevie promises. 

 

Xabi smoothes the blanket over Sergio’s resting form. Sergio stirs and mutters in his sleep, a frown on his face that makes Xabi’s heart tighten in anger. He restrains, though. For Sergio.

Instead, he tucks the younger man’s hair behind his ear and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’ll be back, chiquito. Please don’t leave.”

He stands up, although his eyes still linger. 

“I love you, Serge,” Xabi says and wonders, briefly, when the last time he actually told him was.

 

He leaves as soon Stevie’s car pulls in to the driveway. 

“I’ll tell you everything later,” Xabi promises, with a kiss to Stevie’s lips. “Don’t interrogate him, please. If he wakes up, just make him feel comfortable. Catch up. Don’t ask him if he doesn’t want to talk about it.” 

“I promise not to try to cook for him anyway,” Stevie says, smiling lightly. He gives Xabi’s hand a squeeze before handing over the keys. 

“Gracias, mi amor.”

Xabi slides into the driver’s seat and, for the first time in months, backs out of the driveway. 

 

The old courthouse, tucked behind where Calle de San Sebastían meets Calle de Ángel, is a conspicuous building, padded by blocks and triangles of yellow and hues of peach. The courthouse itself, sweeping just barely above the now-abandoned office buildings tucking in on either side of it, is a creamy sort of white and topped with a small dome that curves to meet the grey sky. Two pillars support its front exterior; vestiges of an attempt at a judicial system that crumbled as soon as the monarch realized how much it truly jeopardized his absolutist power. Dirt from the roads settles on white steps leading up to a set of wide double doors that are chained shut. The chains rustle as the wind blows and the sound is only masked by the cars driving past Calle de San Sebastían, on towards the newly centralized area of the city. The small street the courthouse itself sits upon is quiet and its silence is only interrupted when a sleek silver car pulls in off Calle de Ángel. 

Xabi looks over his steering wheel, critically examining the courthouse as he pulls in along the curb and sets the car a length down the road. It’s not particularly inconspicuous, but it’s not directly in front of the courthouse either, so it serves its purpose well enough. He slides Stevie’s keys into his pocket as he closes the door behind him.

 

Guti is waiting under one of the arches, blond head tucked into the shadows behind a pillar. He leans against it casually, checking his nails, which look suspiciously manicured for a man of his position. 

When Xabi approaches, he expects some sign of acknowledgment. What he gets, instead, is a tedious sigh. 

“Why didn’t you just post a fucking sign?” 

Xabi starts, startled by the other man’s words.

“Excuse me?” 

Guti’s eyes flutter and he refocuses his gaze from his nails to Xabi. Xabi isn’t one to flinch, but the older man’s piercing blue gaze makes him uncomfortable.

“The car, Alonso,” Guti says coldly, drumming his fingernails lightly on the pillar behind him. “You couldn’t have taken the bus?”

Xabi opens his mouth to argue, but closes it wearily. Arguing with Guti has always been fruitless. 

“What made you change your mind?” he asks, instead. Xabi’s voice is wary, but his gaze is calm. He’s known Guti long enough to know how the other man works—never out of the pure goodness of his heart—the existence of which is suspect at the best of times—and never without some measure of gain for himself. “I’ve been trying to meet with you for months now.”

The blond man shrugs by way of answer, although his eyes dart around them. He lets out a small sigh of annoyance before straightening. His clothes, light and fitting against him, ride up lightly and a Cheshire-like grin appears from thin air as he notices Xabi’s gaze.

“Like what you see?” 

Xabi rolls his eyes.

“When was the last time I saw you out of uniform?”

Guti smirks and slides his fingers into his jeans’ pocket. He pulls out a set of keys. 

“College.”

Xabi hums at that, assenting to watching Guti slip the keys into the locks binding the chains in place. Guti’s quiet about it and within seconds he’s sliding the chains carefully out of the handles they’re wrapped and twisted through.

He gives a light tug on the door and it opens smoothly, heavy mahogany barely making a sound against white stone. 

“The first rule of the Royal Guard,” Guti’s smooth voice comes as he jerks his head, indicating that Xabi should step inside, “never conduct private business in public.”

 

The inside of the courthouse is just as Xabi remembers it. The lobby, smooth with white and black tiled floors and thick, wooden panels set against cool, white stone and golden inscriptions scrawled across the walls, remains virtually untouched except for a layer of dust. He runs his fingers over what used to be the guards’ stands while Guti hops up on a stone counter meant for secretarial purposes. He crosses his legs, blue eyes taking in the old splendor, lit up only by vague hints of sunlight streaming in through now-dirty stained glass on the ceiling. 

“I always wanted to work here,” Xabi mutters distractedly. “The first and last bastion between inequality and justice. I didn’t want to mete out punishment, simply exact truth.”

He looks up to see Guti smirking.

“And how’d that work out for you?”

Xabi’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t like to remember when the courthouse closed—when José disbanded the legal system for a system of arbitrary judgments and capital punishments exacted by his own Guard. It began long before that, but, in Xabi’s mind, that had been the beginning of the end. 

“Why are we meeting, Guti?” he asks firmly, steering the topic back to what he came for. With Sergio weighing heavily in his gut, Xabi doesn’t have time for Guti’s ambiguity nor his sense of fun. 

“I got bored,” Guti drawls. “Entertain me, Xabier.”

Xabi fixes Guti with a scrutinizing look before pulling out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He presses it to Guti’s palm. 

“Read.”

Guti’s eyebrows shoot up, but he untangles his fingers long enough to unfold and skim. His expression slowly fades until there’s a frown replacing the ever-present smirk on his lips. 

“Where did you get this?” he demands, looking up sharply. 

“He sent it to me.” 

“Which one? If it’s Zlatan, I’ve never met a man more fucking full of bullsh—”

“It wasn’t Ibrahimovic,” Xabi says calmly. “Nor was it Forlán. I’ve corresponded with them enough to know their styles and handwritings.”

Guti’s frown deepens—he almost looks angry.

“Then?”

“I think it’s from José himself.” 

Guti curses and crumples up the paper before throwing it back at Xabi. 

“And what am I supposed to do with this information?” he sneers. “Do you want me to tell David? Prepare the Guard for the coming massacre?” 

“There wouldn’t be a massacre if you stopped playing Devil’s Advocate, Guti,” Xabi snaps. He’s never had the patience for Guti. The older man was useful, but as dangerous as a double-edged sword. “You’re a pawn in David’s hands, both you and Raúl—”

“Leave Raúl out of this,” Guti hisses immediately, snapping up from his position on the counter. “You don’t know fuck anymore, Alonso, I do whatever the fuck I want.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Xabi growls back. “And if that means the sacrifice of your beloved king, what then?” 

Guti clenches and unclenches his fist, but something about that seems to strike a chord with him. There’s silence and Xabi stares in disbelief until it dawns on him.

“You haven’t warned him, have you?” 

A pause and then Guti scowls.

“David hears whatever the fuck he wants. And he fucking wants to hear that his kingdom is shitting butterflies and gold, not that it’s crumbling beneath his fingers.”

“And if he’s assassinated? Do you expect _Fernando_ to lead? The boy can barely keep track of himself—”

“I would have thought you would jump at the opportunity for David to be put away—”

“ _Deposed_ , not _disposed_ ,” Xabi’s nostrils flare. “You know damn well democracy can’t take root if the people think we’re responsible for his death. Fernando wouldn’t know the first thing to do and Bojan is as ready to take the throne as a boy scout. Civil war would break out faster than you could take a breath.”

Guti glowers for a moment before sighing and rubbing his temples. 

“I need a fucking shot. Or ten.” 

Xabi refrains from rolling his eyes this time; simply presses forward. 

“We need your loyalty, Guti. Or whoever you can manage to call on within the Guard and the Knights.” Xabi sighs and stops pacing. “There are too many rumors left and right, we’re only a group of humans.”

Guti flexes his arms, built body stretching against his tightly fitted shirt. 

“I knew the separatists were moving,” he finally admitted. He raised his eyebrows at Xabi’s shocked silence. “Don’t be so naïve, Xabier. There’s little in this kingdom that I don’t know about.”

“But you didn’t warn—”

“I give what intelligence needs to be given,” Guti says, warningly. “I wasn’t sure as to the extent, but if they’ve made contact with you—”

“They’re gathering alliances,” Xabi fills in for him.

Guti’s eyes flash dangerously. His fingers, drumming lightly on the counter beneath him, curl angrily into the fabric of his jeans. 

“And what answer will you give him?” 

For once, Xabi is silent. It’s not so easy, deciding yes or no. Not when it came to a matter so delicate that three courses, headed for fatal collision, lay in the balance. The pregnant pause is enough to make Guti laugh bitterly.

“Not so easy being the patron saint, is it?”

Xabi shakes his head, a frown pressed to his lips. There’s something occurring to him, just now, fragmented sentences from back pages of newspapers and clippings pasted to the wall that make such little sense that frustration is the only possible cipher. 

“What I don’t understand is why he’s been hiking Guard pay and force drafting when he’s unaware.”

Guti makes a strange noise at this and Xabi looks up. The blond looks calm, but thoroughly displeased.

“Just because he isn’t doesn’t mean Hodgson isn’t.”

Xabi feels sick, as though the bottom of his stomach has just churned to a halt with more acid than it knows what to do with. If there’s a missing piece, then this is it.

“…meaning?”

Guti’s lips flick up into a nauseating, almost evil smile this time. When he leans in close, Xabi can feel Guti’s cool breath on his cheek. It makes shivers run down his spine and not in a good way.

“Meaning David has more to worry about than just Mourinho’s separatists and your Democrats.” 

Xabi thinks he knows what’s coming and it’s nothing he can prepare himself for. 

Guti licks his lips, blond hair swept over blue eyes that are sharp with sarcastic humor and bitter irony. He looks nothing like the most brilliant mind to command central intelligence since Pelé. Instead, he looks positively like a scavenging cat. 

“If King David won’t bring the war to Andalucía, _Xabier_ , Roy Hodgson will.”


	10. Various; Part A. Iker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _V. Various; **Part A. Iker**_  
>  **Word Count:** 7,700  
>  **Chapter Ships:** David Beckham/Iker Casillas (one-sided), Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (mentions)  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**V. Various**   
_i'll show you a god_

**[ part a. iker ]**  


Being Chief Advisor to the King of Andalucía, Iker has found, is a bit like being a babysitter. Iker often weighs his options and dilemmas, trying to decide whether his biggest headache is David’s overstaffed, completely (in Iker’s opinion) incompetent Advising Council or King David himself.

Today, it’s David. 

“ _Fuck_!” Iker curses as he accidentally trips over yet another stair and almost into the arms of a now-blushing maid. 

“Sorry,” he grunts up and pushes past her as her friend—standing to the side with an armful of laundry—giggles very conspicuously into a bright blue towel. 

As he rounds his two dozenth corner in the past two hours, he curses everything—the enormity of the palace, the number of servants, the utter lack of competence displayed by each of them, David’s inability to answer his goddamn phone, his own entire life. 

Two stacks of forms, half-a-dozen phone calls from various state-appointed ambassadors and prime ministers, Bojan, Gutíerrez, and Archbishop Hodgson—Iker winces, that had been close to a nightmare—and David was still nowhere to be found. Iker wasn’t getting paid enough for this. 

He rounds _another_ fucking corner and bumps into—

“Fernando!” Iker exclaims in surprise. He hasn’t seen the young prince since the coronation. 

“Iker,” Fernando says, his lips set into a thin smile.

Iker is surprised to find Fernando looking thinner than usual. He seems different, somewhat—there is a glow to him that is mostly masked by what Iker recognizes as confusion and worry. 

“You okay?” Iker asks, not unkindly. 

There’s a moment of hesitation long enough to confirm Iker’s own opinion, but then Fernando shakes his head. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Just, you know. Dealing.” 

Iker nods, although he’s sure Fernando’s hiding something. Any other time he would pull the younger man to the side and make him talk—he’s like a younger brother to Iker anyway—but today. 

Iker is the one who sighs this time and runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Okay. Have you seen David?” 

Fernando shrugs, although after a minute, he winces.

“Fuck. Uh, actually. Have you checked his room?” 

Iker’s eyebrows shoot up.

“It’s almost noon.”

Fernando winces again and nods.

“Yeah.”

Iker glowers.

“Fuck.” And then. “I’m going to kill him.” 

Fernando’s mouth finally twists up into a smirk. 

“Get in line.” 

Iker lets out an aggravated sigh. 

“Please excuse me while I go kick the King’s ass, Fer.” 

Fernando grins.

“Give one from me.”

“With pleasure.”

It’s only when Iker’s stomping away that he hears Fernando’s voice again.

“Hey, Iker?” 

Iker looks back, distracted.

“Yeah?” 

Fernando looks hesitant for a few seconds. He’s either struggling with his words or the meanings behind them. Iker thinks he knows which it is, but Fernando has never been an open book.

“How do you usually fix a mistake?”

Iker frowns and runs his fingers through his hair again. He hates making mistakes, as a rule. For Iker Casillas, a mistake is usually the difference between success and abysmal, heart-wrenching failure. The latter has never been an option, so mistakes crawl into his skin and buzz there more often than not.

“I usually ignore it and don’t do it again.” 

Fernando blinks slowly, processing, and then nods. He seems preoccupied himself, although Iker doesn’t really have time to stop and wonder why.

“Oh. Okay.”

Iker needs to turn, he needs to leave, but—

“You sure you’re okay, Fernando?”

A pause before—“Yeah.”

Iker doesn’t particularly believe him and Fernando doesn’t seem to either. He looks torn between hesitation and sadness as Iker rounds the corner, but there’s nothing that can be done, at least for now. 

 

Iker jams the key into David’s bedroom door and opens it loudly. He doesn’t bother hiding his noise or his anger as he marches into and across the cavernous room to throw open the heavy, overly ornate drapes. Bright noon sunlight floods into the room—harshly, almost angrily—and he can hear a loud groan from where David’s bed is. 

“Iker?” a bleary voice calls. “What’re you doing—”

“You gave me keys, remember?” Iker glowers sourly. He turns, preparing himself and sure enough—

“Out!” he barks. The two young women in David’s bed bolt up and out quickly, grabbing clothes from the ground as fast as they can. Blushes spread across their bare bodies, but Iker ignores them. “The King has a lot to do today that doesn’t involve either of you.”

He steps closer to them and breathes out a deadly glare. 

“And woe be unto either of you if you _ever_ breathe a word about this to anyone. I will kill you and personally haunt your graves myself.” 

The two young women nod their heads frantically and dash out in terror, robes barely pulled over their slim shoulders. 

Then Iker turns his wrath toward his King. 

“Hi Iker,” David smiles weakly—sheepishly—at his Chief Advisor and best friend.

Iker is not swayed. 

“Two hours, I’ve been looking for you,” he hisses out. “Do you know _when_ I woke up today to do _your_ work _for_ you?”

David cowers under his sheets. 

“No,” he says in a small voice. 

Iker lets out a strangled cry, violently opens David’s closet and throws a handful of clothes at the bed. 

“Shower and dress,” he snaps. “If you’re not out in a half an hour, I’m resigning.” 

“You wouldn’t!” David croaks.

Iker’s eyes fall on a red, lacy bra. He closes his eyes and swallows the painful lump in his throat.

“Watch me.”

 

By the time David emerges from his chamber, dressed and combed to Iker’s specifications, Iker has convinced one of the help to bring him a large goblet of _something_ stronger than the standard water or juice. He waits in the receiving chamber attached to the end of the hallway, fingers thumbing through a file of papers that he has less than no interest in which, of course, means that he has, unfortunately, spent the entire morning pouring over them. 

Mostly they’re reports from David’s economic advisors with specific commentary in the margins from Hernández about how the economy’s going to hell in a handbasket, apparently. As though sticking his head out of the palace windows and seeing the livelihoods of their people come to a grinding halt didn’t emphasize that point strongly enough, although, he supposes, that would require David to actually get his head out of his ass for long enough to stick it anywhere else. 

He’s mostly still fuming when David nervously walks in. The king looks happy and well-rested enough, which is all well and good for someone who apparently has the luxury of sleeping in and with whomever he wishes. For those who don’t have that particular luxury, the day has only halfway finished dragging on and that persistent headache behind his eyes only doubles at the copious amount of cologne that David has apparently decided to bathe himself in. 

“Nice of you to join,” Iker says stiffly at the same moment David carefully ventures, “You look stressed.” 

It is, of course, entirely the wrong thing to say.

“Of course I’m stressed,” Iker snaps. “I’ve been dealing with your advising council’s bullshit all morning. I have papers up to my eyeballs and the press won’t stop fucking calling because they want some kind of statement from you about the dip in the stock market.”

David shrinks back into the chair he’s just sunk into, as though all of this is news to him.

“I-I didn’t say I would—”

“You’ve barely released a statement in weeks,” Iker glares before David can finish his thought. He points a pen at his king, jabbing it into the air as though if he tries hard enough, he can will it to make a hard imprint on the blond’s body. “You’re the king, David, you can’t be pictured vacationing on the coast and not issue _some_ kind of statement about your policies or politics.” 

David, for his part, seems to cower beneath his friend and Chief Advisor’s gaze, but only until a thought occurs to him and his face brightens. 

“Hey, you should take the day off. Let’s go to the movies.” 

And the sad thing is, Iker thinks, that David looks so happy at the possibility, it’s almost as though it doesn’t occur to him that he _can’t_ , that there are responsibilities and burdens the weight of the world and it’s on his shoulders, yes, but they’re not optional. Iker sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks back at the king, the look in his eyes is tired, but soft too. For just a minute, he lets himself speak to David not as an advisor, but as a friend.

“Dave,” he starts and it’s as though his tone immediately sets into David. The other man shifts and sighs, runs a hand through blond hair. 

“I know, I know. Not a possibility.” 

“I don’t want to be your keeper, David, I just—”

“I know, Iker,” David insists and it’s only then that Iker realizes that there are lines at the corners of his eyes, worry lines at the corners of his mouth. Iker can’t remember ever seeing them before and it makes his stomach clench in a way that’s overprotective and entirely too familiar. “There’s a lot of shit I need to deal with and I’ve fucked up most of it—”

“You haven’t,” Iker begins automatically, but he’s cut off. 

“I’m shit at this, can’t you see?” David’s voice is more than just plaintive; it’s almost defeated. Iker puts his pen down almost immediately. “I never took any of it seriously, all of the lessons. I was meant for the Knights, to take my place at their head, to retire to my own estate, fuck, I don’t know. Vic had all of the training. _She_ was supposed to be Queen and not for a fucking long time.” 

Iker slides into the seat next to him, a firm hand on David’s knee and a stern, but kind look on his face.

“But she left. David, she left and your parents are gone and you _are_ the king.” 

He squeezes David’s knee and David reciprocates by sighing and resting his chin on Iker’s shoulder. They sit like that, comfortable, and for a quiet moment it’s as though nothing has changed at all. As though they’re the same two boys who met at the football pitch just beyond the palace grounds that David would drag his governess to when he wasn’t old enough to understand why he shouldn’t. David tilts his head onto Iker’s and covers Iker’s hand with his own and it’s innocent, so painfully innocent that Iker has to close his eyes to keep from sighing at the injustice of it all. 

At the heart of it, at the very heart of it, David has no idea; has never had an idea. And now that he’s king, maybe that’s more heartbreaking than anything else.

“We have to meet with Raúl and Guti, David,” Iker says finally, his voice strained with effort.

David, of course, notices nothing. Instead, he lets out a pitiful sort of whine and then nods. 

“Fine, fine.” He presses a kiss to Iker’s cheek and straightens himself. 

Iker’s goblet of wine is still sitting at the desk or else he would drain the rest of it. Instead, he straightens as well. They don’t need any paperwork for this, so he shoves David out of the chamber and makes sure to lock the door on their way out. 

 

He hears the low rumbling of chuckles and quiet voices as they approach. The High Chamber is what it’s called, but it’s little more than a large room with a low ceiling and a long table crafted purposefully for Important State Meetings. In all honesty, the room makes Iker uncomfortable because, in his mind, affairs of the state need to be discussed in smaller chambers with ample security, not a large room with a long table and echoing walls. But advisors can’t be choosers, Iker has since learned, so he steers David in by the elbow despite his reservations. 

Raúl Gonzalez, decorated Four Star General of the Royal Knights and Front Guard, and José Maria Gutiérrez, Director of Internal Intelligence, sit close at the table. Guti’s hand is on Raúl’s shoulder and Raúl has a look on his face that would possibly betray amusement if it wasn’t reproachful. Iker doesn’t remember a time when the two men weren’t so strangely in-tune with one another and he’s suspected, more than once, but then again, it’s never been any of his business. 

“General, Guti,” David says as he steps in.

Chairs scrape back as Raúl and Guti both stand. The former looks reverent, respectful. The latter looks as though he’s hiding a look of pure disdain just under a faintly condescending smirk. 

“Your highness,” they both say in unison and bow. 

Iker rolls his eyes and Guti winks at him. David doesn’t notice which is, Iker knows, the most common theme in his life. Iker closes the door behind them, nodding to the guard outside to let him know to take his position. There are guards stationed at almost every door within the palace. Necessary safety precautions, Iker knows, but they make him feel uncomfortable, as though there are eyes and ears watching at every corner. 

“Long time no see, guys,” David jokes. He smiles as he takes his place at the head of the table and Iker is hard put not to roll his eyes and groan into his palm. King José was probably rolling over in his grave. 

“You’re an extremely difficult man to reach, your highness,” Raúl says diplomatically. 

Guti opens his mouth, as though to add something, but Iker can see Raúl elbow him in the side. The blond winces and swallows his retort almost immediately. Iker takes a seat on David’s left side, across the table from the two other men. 

“Yes, well,” David says sheepishly. “Lots of work and little play—”

“Is the recipe for some other king,” Guti says pleasantly and earns another sharp elbow for his efforts. Iker doesn’t bother to refrain from rolling his eyes this time and, sadly, David looks innocently lost. It would be irritating if it didn’t tug at Iker’s heart. 

It wasn’t that David was _stupid_ , not by any means. It was a common misconception as far as the press went and David did little to alleviate such concerns and claims, but it was a misconception nonetheless. On the contrary, he was just as bright as Fernando, if not so much as Bojan, he simply showed it in different ways. At the heart of it, really, he had just inherited his mother’s spirit, instead of father’s sharp intuition and wit. 

“Regardless, we’re all here now, so can we proceed?” Iker asks pointedly. It’s aimed at the blond in particular, who flashes him the most aggravating smile possible and Iker thinks he should really ask Hodgson what the protocols of becoming a saint are, because he’s sure that he’s more than earned his stripes. 

“Yes,” David nods. He folds his arms on the table and looks expectantly at Raúl and Guti. He looks at least somewhat serious and regal, so Iker supposes there’s that. “The last time we spoke, there was movement at the borders?” 

“Reports of some clashes between our regiments and a few unlisted forces,” Raúl nods. He has a stack of papers in front of him, filled with tiny writing. As a general rule, Raúl always has papers in front of him, but these in particular, Iker knows, are special reports synthesized specifically for the King and his royal advising council. “They weren’t particularly armed and no one was killed, but it was worrisome.”

“A lot of pressure has been building up,” Guti says. He seems to have stopped smirking long enough to finally offer knowledge on the very position he’s been appointed to. He slips his hand under Raúl’s stack of papers and pulls out a folded map. 

Reaching forward, he unfolds it and sticks it on the table between the four of them. His thin fingers trace the borders of a region to the north. 

“The Basque region in particular has been triggering our intelligence.” Guti outlines Basque country before sliding his fingers elsewhere. “Near Catalonia as well, although not as strong.” 

“Most of the skirmishes have been with the Basques,” Raúl nods in agreement. “The organization is weak but personally, I think it’s mostly a distraction anyway.” 

“A distraction?” David frowns, absorbing this information. 

“Well,” Raúl revises. He presses a finger to his lips before reaching forward and prodding at a few places on the map. “Traditionally, at least under your father’s rule, the points of pressure are here and here. But most of the rebel leaders have always had strong ties back to Basque.” 

“They’ve always been separatist,” Iker nods, adding in to the conversation. He frowns, staring at the areas marked in green. “But they’ve never had that much political clout or, well, firepower—”

“Unfortunately that’s only true when the government is unparalleled,” Raúl says. There’s the hint of an apology in his voice. Next to him, Guti stiffens but, for once, doesn’t smirk. He looks irritated, more than anything else. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the governm—” David starts, but Iker shoots him a look. He shuts up immediately. 

“I don’t mean to be insulting, your highness,” Raúl says softly. “But—”

“But your reign hasn’t been consolidated yet,” Guti interrupts. His voice is blunt and frank. He leans back in his chair and looks Iker directly in the eye. Iker feels distinctly uncomfortable. The problem with Guti is that he’s never really forthcoming, but when he is, he says what he knows will hurt and what usually hurts is the truth itself. And there’s only so much Iker can synthesize and cushion for David. 

“The people are restless, your majesty. They’re unhappy and, excuse my language, their lives are fucking miserable right now, with the way things are going. If you don’t give them changes or show some force, they’re going to realize they have strength in numbers.”

David, Iker thinks, looks faintly nauseous. He reaches under the table and squeezes his knee, knowing it comforts his king and friend. It seems to revive David somewhat and when he speaks again, it’s with more of an edge to his voice.

“What are you suggesting, then?” 

Guti exchanges a side glance with Raúl who sighs softly and rubs at his temples. 

“Your highness, it’s a double-edged sword, unfortunately. You don’t want to risk upsetting the people by showing force, but,” Raúl frowns and shifts the papers in front of him. When he looks up at Iker and David, he looks tired beyond his years. “If you want to hold on to some semblance of authority, it’s almost unavoidable at this point.”

A silence stretches out across the room at this point. The walls, carved from stone, seem to absorb the sounds of their breathing and thinking. Finally, Iker gestures at the map, looks pointedly at the two men across from him.

“What you’re suggesting is pulling Andalucía into war. Civil war, even.”

Raúl drums his fingers on the table while Guti looks even more irritated than before. 

“Listen, Casillas. It’s not something anyone wants to hear, that the government’s losing control and that the separatists are strengthening. No one wants to fucking hear that they have to send out troops against their own people and yeah, it’ll probably end up in something close to a war. But that’s the entire fucking point.”

“What is?” Iker asks irritably. 

“We _need_ to stop them before they gather a big enough force and organize themselves well enough that we can’t control them anymore,” Guti snaps. 

Iker is about to interject when David holds up a hand. The table falls silent again. This time, David’s gaze is on Raúl.

“Raúl. You’re our General here. Guti has the intelligence, what’s your advice?” 

All three pairs of eyes turn to the man with the olive skin and tired eyes. Raúl exhales softly and presses his fingers against his eyes, as though trying to ease the pressure building in his head. He shakes his head softly, his curls moving with him, before opening his eyes again. The look he gives David is hard, but sorry.

“I’m sorry.” A pause and then, “The problem is that they have support, not only in Basque and Catalonia, but everywhere. From the reports I’ve been getting and from what Guti’s shared, it’s clear that we, ah, have little choice. The entire state can’t separate, that’s hardly how it works. But Basque and Catalonia can combine forces and if they’re armed by the French or arms are leaked up through Morocco—”

“There’s no reason for the French to arm the rebels,” David frowns. “We have a good relationship with Sarkozy.”

Raúl shakes his head.

“It certainly wouldn’t be the government. They have breakaway regions to contend with as well. But if Algerian sympathizers or, again, Moroccan organizations—well, your highness, the point is that there’s a potential arms build up we could be facing. The longer we wait to show our own force, the harder they’ll be to disengage later on.” 

“Basic theories of civil wars and rebel groups,” Guti shrugs, as though any of this was common knowledge. “Don’t negotiate with the fuckers and don’t let them get their hands on weapons or you’re fucked.”

“Aren’t you just a fucking poet,” Iker mutters under his breath but David shushes him. 

“So we should go to war,” are the words he says and Iker doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend look quite so grim or defeated. 

“We should take care of the problem before it becomes an even bigger problem,” Raúl corrects quietly. “Hopefully a show of force is all we need and it doesn’t resort to violence. Ideally, the separatists will be quelled for long enough for you to, ah, regain some control of your politics and economy, your highness. No insult intended, of course.”

David nods casually, but Iker can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders tense. After so many years of being with and watching David, it’s those tiny signals that show Iker just how stressed and overwhelmed the King really is.

“Then,” he begins and his throat is dry. David clears it and casts a clear look at both Raúl and Guti. “So be it. I would rather hold my power together than have it fall apart at, you know, the seams. I don’t want a civil war, but—”

“It won’t be a civil war, your majesty,” Raúl tries to assure, but no one in the room believes him. 

“Either way,” David sighs. Under the table, Iker can feel a hand scrambling, searching. He’s calm to sight, but Iker’s fingers find David’s own. David immediately clasps at them, wraps their fingers together. Iker squeezes. It’s comforting; always has been. “I will speak briefly to Guardiola and Iniesta. And Ronaldo to make sure funding is in order.”

Iker’s lips thin at this. There’s hardly any funding at all, he knows, and the chances that a civil war can be won without raising taxes is laughable. None of this will be easy. David has to know that.

“But begin preparing the Knights, Raúl,” David says. “Start moving against the rebels.”

And he probably does, Iker muses, and it isn’t his fault, but they’re left with no choice.

 

The four of them separate after that. Raúl has business to attend to before calling his regiments to attention and Guti, too, has unfinished business that he’s more or less ambiguous about. Iker, unfortunately, returns to paperwork while David has an afternoon booked with meetings. It isn’t until the sun is getting ready to set that he hears a knock on his door. 

“Yeah?” he calls and he doesn’t mean to sound so aggravated, he doesn’t, but at least half of the world’s ambassadors have been on the phone with him all day and he doesn’t have an answer for a single one of them. 

“Busy?” comes David’s soft voice. He opens the door and peeks in, as though afraid of interrupting, and Iker’s expression warms.

“I can’t be busy for the King,” he says with a tired smile. “I believe that would be treason.” 

David smiles in return and closes the door behind him.

“You can be busy for an old friend, though.”

“Oh, are we old friends this afternoon?” It comes out a little bit sharper than he means for it to.

“We’re always old friends, Iker,” David’s face falls. 

Iker sighs and puts down his pen.

“Sorry. What is it?” 

“I know you’ve been stressed,” David says. He sounds as apologetic as he looks, so Iker can’t bring himself to be angry at him again for this morning. “I’m sorry, I am. And I know you have a lot to do, but. Come have dinner with me.” 

Iker ignores the way his heart speeds up. As a general rule, his heart always speeds up whenever David is unintentionally, heartbreakingly unaware and kind. He’s learned to ignore it, as another general rule to life. 

“I don’t know, I need to finish—”

“Come on Iker,” David urges. He has a small, tentative smile on his face. “You know every time you say no, what you really want to say is yes.” 

Iker gives him a thoroughly exasperated look, one eyebrow raised. 

“So say yes.” 

 

David doesn’t want a formal dinner. The entire kitchen has been brimming with activity, readying a veritable feast for him and his brothers, but he declares that he’s too ill for such companionship. Bojan looks a little sad and Fernando mostly just raises an eyebrow, but no one questions him because no one would dare question the King. Instead, David declares that supper should be sent to his room. The kitchen staff, of course, hurry to comply and it’s only then that he manages to convince Chef Zizou to pack extra food into a basket for him. 

Iker mostly watches with a stoic expression on his face, but even he can’t help but soften when David sneaks out of the kitchen grinning, a hand wrapped around the handle of a picnic basket. Iker doesn’t even have time to raise an eye before the King grasps his wrist and drags him down the hallway and through the twists and curves of the palace.

 

Entirely too many corners and steps later, they both climb up the bell tower attached to the cathedral. It’s blasphemous on some level, Iker’s sure, but David’s never been too connected to religion—which makes it ironic, of course, that Hodgson keeps lurking around whenever they least expect and want him—so he probably hasn’t thought of the spiritual repercussions. 

“We’re going to go deaf when the bell rings,” Iker mutters as he takes his seat next to the ledge. David slumps down across from him and pushes the basket in between them. The view from the tower stretches out across the hills and villages that wind down from the palace grounds. Both David and Iker turn their heads to take it in. 

It’s a beautiful sight, with soft peaches and creams brushing a landscape of multicolored rooftops and bricks. The winding paths glow a little in the setting sun and as they disappear between the spaces behind houses, they fade softly into the ground, taking footsteps and the shadows of people with them. The grass sways in a light breeze and it’s only when Iker’s been mesmerized by the sight of their country, their people, their lives, that he feels David’s knee against his.

He turns his head, eyes watching his King and it’s a painful twist of his heart that he can’t find anywhere else. The somewhat soft curves of his face, blue eyes staring out at his country, blond hair sticking up in strands unbefitting a prince, let alone a ruler. Iker sees lines near his eyes and mouth where there were none before and he thinks he’s never seen David look this tired or helpless. It’s almost as though he can see him slipping through his fingers, but it’s David’s burden to bear, not Iker’s, and there’s nothing he can do for it but try to help.

“Eat,” he urges softly and David turns back with a sad smile this time.

“Okay.” 

They pull out warm sandwiches and Tupperware containers of soups and casseroles. There’s half of a cake fit into the corner because Chef Zizou, of course, could not let the King have any less. They chew on their sandwiches for a while until dusk begins to settle more heavily about their shoulders.

“Do you ever think what it would have been like, Iker?” David finally breaks the silence.

“Hm?” 

“You remember.” David’s smile is quiet, reserved. “We were too young.” 

_We were always too young_ , Iker wants to say, but he bites his lips. He nods. 

“We wouldn’t have gotten down the hill before the guards caught you, Dave.” 

“Yeah, but.” David waves his sandwich around a little, emphatically. “I mean can you imagine it? Free to live the way we wanted? We could have been anyone and anything we wanted to be.” 

Iker looks at David pointedly as though to say, _I could still be anyone and anything I want to be. I’m not the one trapped._

“Yes, I know,” David agrees, because he and Iker have known each other for long enough to move past words. “But you chose not to.”

 _I chose you_ , Iker wants to say with blunt irritation. Instead, he takes another bite of his sandwich.

“I just feel like. Like I’m not meant for this,” David laughs. It’s not really with any kind of mirth, but the illusion of it makes everything feel less awkward. “You know? I mean you know, Iker. Fuck, I’m just no good at this. I want to be, don’t get me wrong. But it was always supposed to be Vic or Fer or, Jesus, even Bojan. I was supposed to fuck everything up. Get trashed every weekend. Join a football team, I don’t know.” 

“You’re no good at football,” Iker says with a wry smile and tosses a piece of bread at David’s head.

David wrinkles his nose.

“You’re just too bloody good in the goal.” 

Iker moves his eyebrows suggestively and smirks, which makes David laugh for real. 

“No, but you know. _You know_?”

It’s Iker’s turn to sigh this time. He reaches for the beer the chef’s put in the basket and brings it to his lips. Perhaps it’s a little improper, but then again, they’re having a picnic dinner on a bell tower. That ship has sailed.

“I know, David.” 

This seems to appease the King into silence until he groans and covers his face.

“Fuck, I just want to be able to date who I want. Someone hot, preferably. Someone I don’t have to present to the public.”

That’s when Iker’s sympathy runs out. He clucks his tongue and looks at David dryly.

“Yes, you’ve been having incredible difficulty in that department.” 

David looks up sheepishly and Iker has to turn away because even now, even so many years later, he doesn’t _understand_. Iker doubts he ever will, especially now, and that, not the weight of Andalucía, is the burden that _he_ has to carry.

“I just want to find someone to love,” David says softly, eyes overlooking the country. “I want her to be beautiful, inside and out.”

Iker wants to shake him, wants to make him see that love isn’t so one-dimensional or monochromatic. He wants David to realize what a narrow vision he’s working with, to look beyond what’s right there, what’s expected. But David has never understood nuance and Iker doubts that he’s going to start now.

He sighs and rests his head against the stone wall of the tower. His chest aches, but that too, he’s used to.

Beside them, the bell strikes eight times.

 

It’s a distinct irritation when he wakes up and the man next to him isn’t gone yet. It’s a common courtesy, he thinks. He makes no pretenses about the fact that it’s a one-night stand and as such, the men he brings to his crappy little apartment off the edges of the palace should be courteous enough to at least leave before it’s morning. Instead, there’s bare skin tucked close next to him in the humid Andalucían air and it makes his stomach roil in a way that’s never pleasant. 

Cursing quietly, Iker rolls out of bed, throws a look of disgust at the sleeping man and stumbles into the shower. 

 

He manages to gulp down two cups of coffee and eat half of a croissant when the man, tousle-haired and well-rested, stumbles out from his room. Iker barely remembers the man’s name, let alone where he picked him up. To be fair, he never really remembers where he picks any of these men up, only that they’re at least somewhat safe about it and they’re a good fuck when he needs one. This one wasn’t even that. Iker’s not even the least bit sore or worn out.

It irritates him.

“Good morning,” the other man— _fuck what was his name?_ —smiles. Iker grunts at him and makes a loud mental note to himself that if the other man so much as tries to touch him, he will personally kill him. “I slept late, I’m sorry.”

“You’re supposed to be gone,” Iker glares over his glass of orange juice.

The man looks puzzled and vaguely insulted, but Iker doesn’t really care. As another general rule, Iker doesn’t usually care about anything or anyone. It comes with the job, with the territory. 

“I need to go to work,” he grunts and it’s not by way of apology, just a statement. “You need to leave.” 

“Javier—” the man starts, stricken, and Iker snorts. It’s always entertaining to him, hearing throughout the night or, in some unfortunate circumstances, the next day, what name he fed the poor bastard the night before.

“I don’t have time for this,” Iker says impatiently. He puts down his orange juice and grabs the rest of his croissant.

“Here, breakfast, on me,” he says, shoving the pastry into the man’s hand. The man opens his mouth to protest, but Iker shoves him out of the door before he can say another word. 

 

It’s because he’s never late to the palace that Fernando manages to catch him. He must look tired or at least a bit more disheveled than usual, because the prince’s smile is all too knowing and it makes Iker uneasy.

“…yes?” 

“Late night?” the younger man smirks. 

“I was doing work,” Iker mutters. He waves off the servants at the front gate and nods to the gatekeeper, a harassed looking man with thinning hair on his head. Iker subconsciously pats his own. 

“You were _doing_ something all right,” Fernando snickers and Iker glares at the top of the blond head. 

“You’re annoying,” Iker announces and Fernando chuckles as they walk next to one another down the hallway. Sometimes, when they’re like this, it’s almost as though they’re actual brothers. Iker has one of his own, but Unai hasn’t spoken to him in years and anyway they had never been very close to begin with. With Fernando, it’s a little different, and sometimes Iker wonders whether or not that’s because he’s so distant with the brothers he has. 

Fernando walks with him until he reaches the room he calls his office before Iker looks over at him. The young prince is chewing on his lower lip. He’s quiet in the way that he usually is, but there’s something different about the way that he’s holding himself today. It’s tighter than usual, an unusual tension in his shoulders that Iker can’t place. He thinks he looks tired, but then who at this palace doesn’t, supposes? 

“Have you been eating okay?” Iker asks because it’s the first question he can think of. Fernando _does_ look thinner than usual, it isn’t just his mind playing tricks, and it’s worrisome for someone who secretly tends to worry.

“What?” Fernando blinks. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Iker jerks his head inside and gestures for Fernando to follow him in. The prince raises an eyebrow, but does so anyway. Iker closes the door behind them. 

They exist in silence for a few minutes, Iker starting his computer and checking his messages and where he left off on state documents the day before. Fernando, for his part, stretches out comfortably on the nice velour couch tucked into the corner of the room near the bookshelf. He seems as comfortable as can be, except for the way his lips tug into a frown at the corners.

It worries Iker, so he scans briefly through his email before turning toward the younger man. He doesn’t say anything, although it’s obvious enough that his eyes are trained on Fernando. 

Fernando pretends not to notice, until it gets uncomfortable and then he winces. He rolls his shoulders and then sinks back into the couch, eyes darting nervously around the ceiling. 

“David’s on the edge of a breakdown,” he says, to no one in particular.

“Yeah, I know.” 

“I can see it in his eyes. He panics anytime someone approaches him.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He’s going to end up sobbing into your shoulder in front of Guardiola one day.”

Iker says nothing and Fernando’s eyes shift until they meet Iker’s brown ones. He’s scared, Iker thinks, almost immediately, but he doesn’t know why.

“Iker,” Fernando breathes and there’s a secret in his tone. Iker straightens. “I—Fuck.” 

The words seem to be difficult for him to form, so he runs a hand through long blond locks instead. Iker’s shoulders soften and he crumples up a post-it note and throws it at Fernando’s head.

“You’ve known me for years, Nando. Tell me.”

Fernando catches the post-it note ball in his fist and uncrumples it, smoothes it out, tears at the corners until the paper is jagged. He takes a deep breath and exhales noisily. It’s a distraction, but the words are at the tip of his tongue.

“It’s about a boy,” Fernando whispers.

And he sounds so scared, so hesitant, that he doesn’t have to say the rest. When he meets Iker’s eyes, the gaze trembles. Iker barely knows the details, but he knows the entire story.

“Oh,” Iker breathes softly, sadly. “Oh, Fer.”

 

Once upon a time, Iker knew a boy. He was young with long limbs and a laugh Iker could hear from the house next door. He had braces fitted to white teeth and long hair that fell around his shoulders. He wore clothes that fit well and jeans that hung low and he had the most soothing voice Iker had ever heard. He came into Iker’s life by accident, took his heart by storm, and when they kissed, Iker always felt guilty, even when he didn’t mean to. 

Sometimes, Iker wonders, what happened to that boy. Sometimes, he wonders, whether or not he broke his heart.

When Fernando describes his boy, the flamenco player with the large eyes and the long hair and the tattoos spidering down his arm, Iker is reminded of the boy he knew. He wants to tell Fernando to be careful, but he wonders if it’s not the other way around.

“Don’t break his heart,” Iker says and Fernando looks at him with raised eyebrows as though he knows just how hypocritical that is.

“What kind of advice is that, Iker?” Fernando asks softly, head between his hands. 

Iker, sitting next to him now, wraps his arms around Fernando’s thin shoulders. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs into blond hair. He presses a kiss there, as though that can cure what Fernando has admitted. “You have to say no, Niño.” 

Fernando says nothing, but his head dips. Iker can see the shadows under his eyes. It’s not what anyone wants to hear, but that’s the price to pay for reality, for a kingdom. 

Iker sighs and shakes his head, rests his chin on the prince’s shoulder. 

“If you let yourself hope, you’ll only end up breaking your own heart.”

That, Iker knows only too well.

 

It’s a bit like what he would imagine initiation into a secret society is like. One minute he’s walking along, speaking to a visiting diplomat and the next he’s being roughly pulled into the High Chamber. He barely has time to think before he’s shoved into a seat and the door closes with a thud behind him. Guardiola locks it and Iker can barely contain his displeasure before Xavi presses a gentle hand to his shoulder. 

“What is this?” Iker asks anyway, irritation evident in his voice. 

Guardiola ignores him and looks around the room, counting the members. A cursory glance around and Iker can see almost all of David’s advising council sitting around the long table. Raúl and Guti are missing, which makes Iker’s eyes narrow.

“Pep, what—”

“This was a necessary meeting, Iker,” a voice from the end of the table calls. Iker winces and tries not to grind his teeth. He turns from the doorway to face the head of the table.

Wearing a serene smile and a black robe to denote his position, Archbishop Roy Hodgson stands to attention.

“Why isn’t King David here,” Iker says, none too pleasantly. There’s a faint murmuring around the room and Iker can tell from Van der Vaart and Iniesta’s faces that he wasn’t the only one caught by surprise. 

“We have a bit of, ah, an issue to discuss without him,” Hodgson says, waving his hands around faintly.

Iker’s eyes narrow. As perhaps his most important general rule, Iker Casillas really fucking hates Archbishop Roy Hodgson. He tries not to let it show. It mostly fails, but Hodgson’s too busy looking around the room to really notice one way or another anyway. 

“Thank you for gathering, High Council,” he says, still standing. “As Archbishop with strong ties to the monarchy, I hope you know I have a vested interest in the strength of His Royal Highness and the royal family.” 

A few eyebrows raise, but none higher than Iker’s. 

“This being the case, the reason I called you to this meeting was to discuss one of the, ah, clauses in the social contract.” 

“There’s no written social contract,” Meireles, Guti’s secondhand, questions from his seat next to Iniesta. A tall man with a closely shaved head and too many tattoos to count, Iker’s always liked the Portuguese expatriate if not for his intimidating looks, then for his blunt manners.

“None so public,” Hodgson says. There’s an old tome sitting in front of him. “There is, however, the original document which states exactly how and under what circumstances the kingdom is to run—”

“That contract is older than your church,” Iker points out. He isn’t nice about it. Meireles offers him a faint smile. 

“Be that as it may,” Hodgson says with a bit of edge. “There are still rules to follow, Iker.”

“And what rule are we talking about today?” Iker hopes that in some universe karma exists because he’s almost entirely certain that Hodgson has earned more than enough negative for being an overall bitch.

“Article XIII, Clause 72.” 

“There are 72 clauses, are you kidding me—”

“No Iker, I am not,” Hodgson says pleasantly, with disdain. Iker huffs and Hodgson continues. “You may not like it, Chief Advisor, but it states here that upon the death and subsequent succession of rulers, notably kings of a certain caliber, a dual spread of power is necessary to ensure the formidability of power and to thus assure that joint decisions are made for the benefit of Andalucía.”

The words fly over Iker’s head. He frowns. Next to him, Xavi bristles.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“I’m reading the words as they were penned by David’s ancestors,” Hodgson says.

Iker doesn’t know why Xavi is rising, nor why his face is getting increasingly red, but he has a feeling that he isn’t going to like it. 

“How long?”

“The clause states between two to three months after coronation.”

“It’s already been two months, you can’t expect him to—”

“The _law_ is in black and white, Xavi, we cannot change it.”

“This is bullshit, there’s no way David can find someone to marry in one month.”

Suddenly the air rushes out of the chamber, as though it’s been vacuum-sucked on high power. Iker can feel a pounding in his ears and he’s on his feet before he knows it.

“ _What_?” 

Hodgson turns to him with an unnervingly calm sort of smile. 

“King David must find someone to wed within the next month or the throne will go to Prince Fernando.” At this, Hodgson pauses a little and tilts his head. “And then Prince Fernando will have no more than three months to wed his princess.”

There’s a sort of sharp pain between his eyes that Iker has never felt before. There are things that need to be considered, such as: David does not have the emotional patience nor stability to commit himself to a stable relationship right now. Such as: David has more to think about, more to worry about, the burden of the world on his shoulders without adding marriage to the pile. Such as: where the fuck is he going to find someone willing to marry him in a month’s time with a kingdom crumbling at his fingertips? 

Such as: Fernando has no idea who he wants or what he wants and certainly the Princess is included in this list and the boy he, supposedly, has feelings for isn’t. 

Such as: Iker is in love with, has always been in love with, and will, perhaps, always be in love with his King, his commander, his best friend.

Iker’s stomach drops because David has one month to find a queen or he forfeits his throne, his power, his entire country.


	11. Various; Part B. The Church and the Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _V. Various; **Part B. The Church and Knights**_  
>  **Word Count:**  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Cristiano Ronaldo/Kaká, Raúl/Guti ; Roy Hodgson, Jesús Navas, Gonzalo Higuaín
> 
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

**V. Various**  
 _i'll show you a god_

**[ part b. the church and knights ]**

 

“Guti,” is what he whispers, hopefully reproachfully, in truth, a little more hesitantly than he means to. It’s difficult to sound too reproving when he’s pushed against the table like this, sharp edge of wood digging into his smaller back while the other man’s knee separates his legs. 

He’s never really sure how he ends up like this, only that it happens more often than he means for it to.

“Shhh,” Guti shushes calmly, one hand untucking the General’s uniform and the other buried deep within dark hair. His lips are working up Raúl’s jaw and one of Raúl’s hands curls around the edge of the table while the other grasps onto Guti’s hip, knuckles on both turning white from the effort. “You worry too much.” 

It isn’t wrong, Raúl clarifies in his mind, and he’s known Guti for over half his life, so it’s not strange either. Guti, for all of his faults, has never been apologetic or unclear about what he wants.

“Guti, please,” he tries to reason again, for propriety’s sake and this time the blond man actually pulls back enough to settle Raúl with a steely gaze. He looks thoroughly displeased, which isn’t particularly surprising, because Raúl knows how temperamental Guti can be when he doesn’t get what he wants. 

“Are you denying that you want to fuck me?” he asks, point-blank because what is Guti but thoroughly blasé and blunt about absolutely everything? 

“No,” Raúl admits after a moment. 

“And,” Guti continues, licking his already-moist lips carefully, “are you denying that you want me to fuck you?” 

Again, Raúl has difficulty answering. He shakes his head slowly, which will only encourage the other man, he knows. 

“Then,” Guti says with annoyance, “why do you always insist on stopping me, halfway through?” 

Raúl lets out a weary sigh and lets his head drop back on the table. This isn’t a very comfortable position to begin with, let alone with a highly irate blond hovering over him. Raúl’s throat is dry with desire, his stomach tight with need. He closes his eyes momentarily, tries to imagine that Guti is a woman—which isn’t hard, admittedly, with his side-swept hair and impeccable grooming and sudden mood swings—because maybe then this wouldn’t feel like a secret simply waiting to be outed.

“This isn’t right,” he begins, slowly, but he’s cut off almost immediately.

“What is?” Guti asks dryly, with a dramatic and punctuated roll of his eyes. “Being _gay_?” 

Raúl’s own irritation prickles at that, because he doesn’t like being patronized, he didn’t get to where he is by being condescended to.

“No,” he says shortly and begins pushing himself to his elbows. Guti doesn’t move, so he’s effectively trapped under strong, thin arms and blue eyes boring into his brown ones intensely. “I have no problem being gay—”

“Then?” Raúl gets the vague feeling that there is a right answer and a wrong answer and Guti will definitely not be pleased if he gives the wrong one.

Raúl sighs and lets go of the table to run fingers through his hair. It’s been sufficiently ruffled, Guti’s fingers raking through carelessly so that curls are tossed with no semblance of proper grooming. 

“It’s against the law,” Raúl finally says. “Forbidden.” 

Guti stiffens at this, eyes downcast for once. 

“We can’t—” Raúl begins, then stops. Tries again. “I’m a General, Guti. I have a duty to his Highness. I have an obligation to follow the law, no matter how unfair it might be.” 

Guti’s eyes flash and still he doesn’t move. If anything, Raúl feels the other man’s warm body curve closer to his. Again, Raúl feels a coiled motion in his stomach, lust or absolute need curled tight until it makes him feel tense with nausea.

“And you’re Internal Intelligence,” Raúl continues, digging his own grave. “Director of. If we were to break the law.”

He lets the silence settle between them, first thinly and then thicker until he feels it like powder on his skin. Guti is clearly not happy and, now, not even making eye contact. Raúl would apologize, but he’s not sorry, not really. He’s filled with very few regrets in his life and maybe this could be one of them, but his duty to his country comes first, has always come first.

He’s ready to disentangle himself, to tuck his uniform back in and find peace in the four stars attached to his shoulder, in a bitter kind of loneliness, but pride in the loyalty that drives him and his men.

“Jesus Cristo, Raúl,” Guti says before he can move. “Do you actually think I give a fuck?”

Raúl doesn’t know what to say, which is just as well, because Guti certainly isn’t done. 

“That law is as fucking worn as Hodgson himself,” the blond says angrily, his fingers curving almost painfully into Raúl’s surprisingly thin hips. “If Hodgson really gives a shit about who I fuck, he can take it up with the Virgin Mary and if she’s concerned, then she can take it up with Jesus himself, because I sure as fuck didn’t ask for it.” 

He’s worked himself up into a frenzy, apparently, because his body suddenly pulls away from Raúl and the General immediately misses the warmth. 

“I have to listen to Guardiola and Hodgson spew their bullshit every fucking day, I have to be nagged to fucking death by Casillas, I have to watch our holy fucking king run this entire country into the ground, the _least_ they can all do is let me fuck whoever the _fuck_ I want to.” 

Guti’s breathing so hard that it takes Raúl by surprise. The problem is that Guti is—and has always been—almost dangerously beautiful, but when he’s angry and not just petulant, he’s breathtaking. He always forgets until he says something to set the other man off and that’s how they end up like this, always, and Raúl simply forgets until the next time Guti pins him against something inappropriate and makes him beg for it. 

He’s never said no, to date, although he always begins with the best of intentions. 

“We have loyalty to King David,” Raúl says, finally, but soothingly, and he attempts to wipe the frustration away from Guti’s brows. “He just needs time.” 

Guti sighs this time and buries his face into Raúl’s neck, which isn’t so much a sign of weakness as deep, unresolved feelings. 

“We don’t _have_ time, Raúl,” he says. Raúl feels Guti’s warm breath tickle his collar bone and he tries to remember to breathe in and out smoothly. 

“He’s just lost his parents,” Raúl muses out loud. His eyes are trained on the ceiling above them, his body highly attuned to Guti’s movements, but at least he’s been pushed back enough on the table so that he’s sitting instead of being dug into. “He’s lost his sister. He’s head of his family, head of a country, cast into a role he was never meant for.” 

“The entire country lost its sovereigns,” Guti replies with a hard tone. “They lost their king, their queen, their princess, and now they’re waiting on a king who has yet to appear. The economy is being ripped to shreds and if he doesn’t get his head out of his ass, there won’t be a country left for the separatists to tear apart.” 

There’s an ominous, expectant silence between them then, at the gravity of Guti’s words. They prickle at Raúl’s pride, because his life is to protest the royal family, his duty is to train respect and a fear of authority into the hearts and minds of the people. But still, he can’t deny the truth there because he isn’t stupid or naïve enough to. 

“I promised that there wouldn’t be a civil war,” Raúl voices softly. It’s a fear that’s been carefully held at bay, never spoken aloud because only then does the possibility of failure become real. 

“You can’t promise something like that,” Guti says. He gives Raúl a hard look, one that isn’t reproachful, but realistic. “You are the General of the Royal Army, you have to be prepared for when it—”

“If—”

“— _when_ it happens,” Guti finishes. 

“Civil war,” Raúl breathes after a minute of silence. “That’s what he’s asked me to do.” 

Seemingly, Guti’s had enough of talk because he moves his lips to Raúl’s pulse point again. He bites down there, harder than usual, and immediately Raúl’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He’s back to gripping the edge of the table and Guti manages to successfully part his legs this time, one hand dragging Raúl’s uniform up and the other quickly unfastening his buttons and zipper. 

“Lead us into war, mi general,” Guti says hotly into Raúl’s ear as he bends him back against the wood. 

Raúl doesn’t feel any pride or honor at all as Guti thoroughly fucks him, but he does, temporarily, forget about the death sentence he has to carry out against his own country.

///

There is exactly a one hour window between the break of dawn and the awakening of the palace during which he can feel God’s grace settle around him. He’s mentioned this to Sergio, once or twice, but there’s only one other person who’s ever really understood him in a manner that was genuine and not appeasing.

The early morning settles around both of their shoulders, clothed in the deep hues of sunrise peaches that brush against the dark cloths of their robes. Their heads are bent in prayer, lips forming the circular shape of vowels and wider shape of syllables. Here, just after dawn, he’s certain God can hear him without words. He can feel the steady beating of his heart, the ache of his knees against the cold stone floor, and something as simple the solid rush of warm blood through his veins, the faint, almost discernible, thrumming in his ears, makes him feel as though he’s already having a conversation with his Lord and Maker. 

Jesús lowers his head in prayer, the large cavern of the cathedral echoing with sounds of the deep morning around them. Next to him, the other man of the church stirs, his breathing picking up in the way that signals the end of mediation or prayer. He crosses himself and pushes himself to his feet. Jesús takes a moment to finish up the recitation of a verse and does the same. 

They both stretch their arms above their heads, shake out the aches in their legs and knees, before Kaká smiles and embraces Jesús. 

“That felt nicer than usual,” the older man comments and Jesús has to agree. 

“The lack of heat, I think,” Jesús says. He places a kiss to Kaká’s cheek and then pulls away to brush off his robe. “There’s something about praying in the cool morning air.”

“It makes you feel closer, somehow,” Kaká agrees. Then he cocks his head, mischief glittering in his eyes in a way that only Jesús ever sees. “Probably because you can actually think about God and not how uncomfortable these robes are.” 

“Not that we spend the majority of our prayers thinking about robes instead of Jesus,” Jesús says with a small smile and Kaká laughs in agreement.

“Of course not,” he says, stifling a yawn. “That would be blasphemous.” 

“Among so many other things,” Jesús agrees. It’s easy to joke, even at the church’s expense, with Kaká like this, in the early hours of the day when not even the Archbishop is awake yet. It’s relaxing in its own manner, because he’s pious, but he did grow up with Sergio. Jesús’s life is God, is the church and his religion, but he’s a person unto himself and sometimes he wonders if the Archbishop suspects that and frowns upon it. 

“I meet with the Council today,” Kaká says lightly. He stands beside the alter, leaning lightly against the wood, fingers sweeping through beads of a rosary as he looked out into the empty cathedral. It’s large and vacuous, almost an eerie cavern when there is only one other person and nothing but the smell of candles and incense to accompany them both. 

“With who?” Jesús asks curiously. He tries to be nonchalant about it because he isn’t supposed to be partisan, he is supposed to be only with God, human affiliations taken a secondary course in the bigger picture. But his stomach tightens a bit, as it does any time Kaká mentions the politics next door. 

“Señor Guardiola, Iker, his Highness,” Kaká speaks quietly. His voice is low and soothing, his syllables punctuated by the faint clatter of rosary beads as they slide against each other. 

“About what?” Sometimes, when he asks things like this, Jesús feels overwhelmed, tight feeling contracting his chest until he can’t breathe. It’s a matter of torn loyalties, because God demands one thing of him and Xabi and Sergio another. He wants to say that he would be able to choose, but he’s mortal at the heart of it and he loves Xabi and Sergio more than himself. 

“Just a report,” Kaká continues. “An update on progress, how many people attend service, donations we’ve received.” 

Jesús frowns at that particularly, because that’s been bothering him for a while as well. 

“We’ve received quite a few donations recently,” he says softly. He doesn’t like the way his voice echoes around the chamber, light as it is. It makes him look up nervously, look around for the Archbishop and it makes him feel better to notice Kaká doing the same. “Not all of them from regular attendants.”

“Regular attendants couldn’t give such significant sums,” Kaká mutters and Jesús is relieved to know that they’re on the same page. They usually are, he and Kaká, and he takes a moment to close his eyes and thank God that he’s been blessed with such a close and honest confidante.

Sometimes he misses Sergio so terribly that it aches, a deep, throbbing in his chest until he can hear his best friend, his brother’s voice again. It’s like a homesickness that washes over him, makes him feel unstable and afloat in an environment that should be his savior. He told this to Kaká once, when they both first arrived and had whispered conversations over Bibles pressed close together. It was luck or by the will of God that Kaká had been so kind and understanding. Even now, he looks at Jesús with a sympathetic expression. 

He’s grateful that Kaká doesn’t mention it, however, because it’s been weeks since he’s heard from Sergio and the ache threatens to overwhelm him if he thinks about it for longer than a few seconds. 

“I don’t like to question it,” Kaká says and closes his eyes with a wary sigh. “But I can’t in good conscience not.”

Jesús nods with a frown.

“They’ve been increasing. The Archbishop caught me looking at the church’s expenses a while ago and hasn’t let me near his ledgers since.”

It had struck Jesús as odd at the time, of course, but he had tucked the detail away—Hodgson’s flashing eyes, the way his nose had flared out, shut the books tightly and instructed Jesús to go elsewhere—afraid not only to betray the church, but also to affiliate with Xabi and Sergio’s partisan movement just by association. It troubles him, the way he empathizes with them, because all he wants is peace and what they suggest would bring war. 

“He’s been giving a lot to the Knights, Jesús,” Kaká whispers, eyes trained on the pews in front of them.

It takes just a brief moment for Jesús to realize what Kaká’s said and then he looks over with wide eyes. Kaká, for his part, closes his and breathes in deeply, swallowing roughly.

“I know we’re not supposed to,” he says slowly. “But in good conscience.”

And Jesús agrees, is the thing. He sighs and nods his head in agreement. 

“I don’t trust him either,” he says, voice barely above a breath, and he knows by the way that Kaká looks stricken that the other man, too, is afraid of how they feel.

///

 

Guti’s gone when he wakes up. There’s always an incalculable measure of time, just after he opens his eyes, when he misses the warmth of the other man beside him. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to, just for once, wake up with someone as opposed to with the memories with someone. He knows that Guti would, is the thing, and that’s precisely why Raúl never allows him to. It’s difficult enough, trying to stop Guti when he wants to do anything but, but there’s hypocrisy and there’s security and the last thing Raúl wants to be is the reason either of them end up in front of the firing squadron. Raúl shivers a little at the thought, namely because he personally trained the squadron and so he knows that they will never miss their mark.

He rolls over in his bed, sheet tossed carelessly over his bare hips and he buries his face into the pillow next to him. It still has the barest traces of warmth and a lingering smell so familiar to Raúl that it helps ease the tension from his shoulders. 

This is going to be a problem, he decides. But then, he thinks blearily, it always has been.

 

He dresses precisely, combs back his curls in a manner befitting a man with unspeakable authority burdened on his shoulders. He stands up a little straighter for it and closes his eyes momentarily, trying not to feel as hypocritical as he really is. He never minds the weight of the world so much, although lately he’s found his mind drifting. He can’t help but think of things that could have been and things that are and this is a problem too, that he has a veritable war on his hands and all he can think about is blue eyes and the feel of blond hair through his fingers. 

Raúl manages to stifle his thoughts before they border on inappropriate and he barely touches any semblance of breakfast before shuffling out of his quarters. He’s at Iker’s door at precisely 7:45 AM, which is to say an entire 15 minutes before they had planned to meet anyway. His back is straight as he waits and he thinks it’s particularly sad that even after a night of both sober and drunken sex, he’s able to meet dawn and be across the courtyard to the palace well before he needs to be. It’s military training or a lifetime of early mornings, but either way, he only realizes how distracting the dull throbbing in his head is after he’s also realized that his throat is a bit like sandpaper. He swallows painfully just as Iker shuffles into view. 

It is common knowledge that Iker looks about as harassed and ruffled as he truly is, but somehow he looks even worse this morning, as though he hasn’t gotten any sleep at all. Raúl’s ears, fine-tuned to the sounds around him now that his body’s had enough time to realize the amount of alcohol it metabolized the night before, pick up how heavy his breathing is, the way Iker’s feet seem to drag across the ground as he approaches. 

By the time he’s actually at the door, Raúl reaches out a hesitant hand. He’s, unfortunately, a rather affectionate man, although not for lack of trying. It’s a bit like an impulse he can’t control, like the way King David nervously laughs or Guti speaks, ever.

“I’m saying this as a friend,” Raúl mutters quietly, with a gentle squeeze to Iker’s shoulder, “but you look terrible.” 

Iker looks up at Raúl with a bleary sort of glance and when he finally decides to smile, it’s almost as though he has to forcibly instruct his face as to how. 

“Long night,” Iker replies as he turns the key and unlocks the door to his office. They both hear the faint click and Iker slides the door open, gesturing for Raúl to go in first. Raúl does so and even he realizes that his shoulders are actually slouching. Iker’s eyebrows shoot up immediately. “What’s your excuse?”

Raúl gives a faint laugh before tiredly massaging his temples. 

“I, ah, had a few drinks.” 

Not that this is meant to douse any suspicion because, strictly speaking, it doesn’t. 

“Guessing would be a waste of my efforts,” Iker comments, scratching at his neck before curving around his desk to his seat. There’s a pile of papers a mile high and books that honestly look as though they’ve been scrawled in Ancient Greek. It looks miserable, Raúl decides, and it’s a wonder, he thinks, that Iker has any hair left at all, given the state of the kingdom and how much paperwork he is subject to. 

“I should be more subtle,” Raúl mutters. It’s not an admission, not really, just as the way Iker’s eyes light up around King David or the way his hand always lingers a moment too long on the King’s shoulders isn’t. Regardless, they both know, because it is, obvious, and they’ve known one another far too long to pretend otherwise. 

“It’s not you who needs lessons,” Iker says, settling into his seat. 

Raúl lets out a low chuckle which, on the surface, sounds more like a strangled cry than anything else.

“Be that as it may,” he says and it’s as good of a transition as any, an easy kind of way to separate Raúl from General González Blanco and Iker from Chief Adviser Casillas. 

“We need to sit down again,” Iker sighs, sensing the transition and obliging. He doesn’t bother to turn on his computer, barely bothers to look at the pile of notes on his desk. Instead, he takes a small stress ball and squeezes it tightly in the palm of his hand, little bits of red squeezing out from between his fingers. Raúl’s eyes are kept carefully trained on his face and he sits up a bit straighter in his chair, aware of how uncomfortable the situation is for both of them. 

“I have plans drawn out,” Raúl answers. He’s a bit disappointed that he didn’t think to bring any with him, but he had been sufficiently frazzled this morning, not that he’s ever allowed himself to use that as an excuse. He taps a finger against his lips, thinking. “If we move a third of the Knights to the Basque borders and a third to Catalonia, there should be a third left to safeguard the king.” 

Iker frowns at this and his hand works more furiously, the rhythm of his squeezing keeping strange synchronicity with a twitch near his right eye. 

“We don’t know how large the rebellion factions are, the problem is that if we split our forces—”

“Yes, I know,” Raúl says with a bit of annoyance. He’s respectful even at the best of times, but sometimes, something like this will prickle at his pride, because this is what he does, this is what he’s always been incomprehensibly good at. “It isn’t a matter of splitting our forces and leaving us weak in each location. We could attempt to compile the Knights and crush one of the movements, but then we risk a reactionary backlash in the other region.” 

Iker winces as his nails cut into the stress ball. 

“On the other hand, if we cut them into thirds like you suggested, we leave each flank weaker than it would be,” he says with a sigh. 

“Do you not trust our Knights?” 

“It’s not them I don’t trust,” Iker mutters. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back in his chair. Raúl wishes he could do the same, but he sits straighter instead, because somehow that’s still possible. 

“What, then?” 

Iker’s hesitant then and Raúl watches carefully. He thinks there’s something he’s missing, a link or a thread that would make the entire picture make sense. As it is, all he has is effective battle strategies in his head and either and all of them will end up a disaster if there’s something in the bigger picture he can’t see. 

“It’s just—” Iker opens his eyes and looks at Raúl with worry. “And I don’t mean to overstep my bounds.”

“Iker,” Raúl says gently. “We’ve known each other since we were children.”

“I’m not questioning your competency or authority, Raúl, it’s just,” Iker swallows past a lump Raúl can visibly see. He fears the worst. “Hodgson.” 

The room seems to grow thick with silence, Raúl’s own heartbeat seemingly becoming thunderous as tension cuts through them both. Raúl’s a religious man and he doesn’t particularly like to question the church, but there’s been a tugging at his heart for months now that he can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries. 

It has almost nothing to do with Guti’s insistent blasphemy either. 

“What does he have to do with war, Iker?” 

“He doesn’t,” Iker mutters, eyes downcast. “Not necessarily.”

“Then?” 

Iker lets another minute settle between them before sighing. 

“There’s nothing I can prove, Raúl, so don’t ask me to. I just don’t—I don’t trust him. And, frankly, I don’t like some of the things he’s been saying about the Knights.” 

Raúl digests this slowly. His stomach is churning in a way that’s entirely familiar and entirely unwanted. He looks at Iker, brown eyes flickering with a cautious kind of accusation.

“What are you implying, Iker?”

Iker looks apologetic now. Not fearful or regretful, just apologetic. It’s obvious that he’s thought this way for a long time, that he’s simply been gathering the pieces of the puzzle until it’s fit to make one shape. Raúl doesn’t know how he got there, but he doesn’t like the look of apology and he doesn’t like the implication it comes with.

“All I’m saying, Raúl,” Iker says, in a carefully measured tone, “is that I trust you. I trust the men you directly lead. Beyond that.” 

He trails off here and sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose in a way that’s meant to alleviate a threatening headache. Raúl’s tried it before. It’s never been particularly successful. 

“Are you saying that I don’t control all of my men?” Raúl asks this time and his breathing is picking up, he can feel anger thrumming just below his pressure points. 

Iker shakes his head slightly and, this time, doesn’t try to meet Raúl’s eyes. 

“I’m saying,” he says softly, so softly, “that it would be extremely difficult to do so.”

 

It’s a measure of utmost willpower and self-preservation that keeps Raúl relatively cordial throughout the rest of their meeting. They agree to meet again with King David and Guti and Raúl dislikes the sorry glances Iker keeps giving him, as though he’s not empathetic but sympathetic and Raúl’s never wanted sympathy from anyone in his entire life. He leaves quickly, barely says goodbye to Iker, and he knows it’s unfair, but the amount of space in his mind that isn’t consumed by the Knights or Guti is now, unfortunately, consumed by a smoldering kind of rage that only gives absolute credence to what Iker’s suggested. 

Not mutiny or betrayal, necessarily, but a complete—or even partial—loss of control to the Archbishop, to the church, to anyone except himself. It’s an accusation of the most painful proportions, mainly because it means Raúl’s authority has been undermined, that his measures to instill loyalty and pride in his men have gone unheeded. He’s not particularly power-hungry, Raúl, but he’s the commanding General of the Knights and to question their loyalty is to question his.

He’s bitterly angry when he decides, on a split-second whim, what he’s going to do. He’s a bit like Guti at the moment, channeling his anger and too-obvious suspicions into a course of action that can only come back to destroy him. If, at the end, he falls to this, he will have no one but himself to blame, but Iker’s lit a fire that had been vaguely crackling to begin with. Raúl never felt as though he lost control of the Knights, but he’s had an increasing feeling that someone else has gained more control of them.

And that is precisely the problem. 

He knocks on the apartment door quietly, rapidly. The number and letter 5C glow dimly in the shadow of the awning and he moves into the shadow more, as though it will protect him from the glare of the high noon sun. This is stupid, for the record, and Raúl doesn’t really approve of stupid, but he can come up with a fitting lie should anyone ask.

He frowns as there is no answer and he raps his knuckles on the door again, louder. This time, there’s a scrambling sort of noise from inside and a loud voice crying “Just a minute!” 

He takes the full minute, Raúl thinks bemusedly, and he’s not the only one blinking with Gonzalo opens the door. 

“G-general,” the younger man says, blinking rapidly and forgetting to close his mouth.

“Higuaín,” Raúl says slowly. His eyes hold Gonzalo’s eyes carefully. “May I come in?” 

Gonzalo stares at Raúl for a moment and then another and then, slowly, he closes his mouth and nods. He stands up straight and opens the door for his General. 

“Yes, sir,” he says. “Please come in.”

Raúl nods and takes the invitation gratefully. Gonzalo closes the door behind them and locks it. He doesn’t need a hint or a cue. He and Raúl understand one another enough to look past obvious dictations. 

The younger man looks at Raúl beseechingly and Raúl rubs his face with his hands. 

“Pipita,” he says, abruptly. Gonzalo lets out a sharp breath and Raúl can sense that he understands, implicitly, immediately. “I have a favor to ask you.”

 

///

 

He lines the barrel of the rifle up, left eye shut and right brown eye squinting at the shape in front of him. The circle is hewn expertly from wood thick enough to support the bullets lodged tightly in. The red paint is chipping, although the circular shapes are more than visible. He gauges the distance between his position and the center of the target and then moves his hand a millimeter to the right. Satisfied, Pipita pulls his index finger back and lets the trigger loose. 

There’s a slight metallic grunt as the bullet fires forward, the conic shape ripping through the air until it expertly lodges dead-center in the red paint. Pipita lowers his rifle and grins, widely, makes a mental note to gloat at Eze about how superior his marksmanship is. 

“I say, good job, Gonzalo,” Pipita says aloud to no one, mimicking mannerisms that somehow manage to merge the General’s speaking cadences with the preposterous things that the visiting British Commander—Terry-something-or-other—had felt need to say to the Knights. “You’re more than ready for a promotion now. I daresay you might even surpass the General himself. We’ll let him keep his position for posterity, but we all know you’ll have the real power.”

He thinks about Commander Terry saying this while General González Blanco watches in horror and he has to snicker into his sleeve. He momentarily forgets that he has a rifle in his hand until it hits his kneecap painfully.

“Fuck!” he moans just as a familiar voice cuts out, “Yes, they’ll replace Raúl with you any day, at this rate.”

Pipita looks up from somewhere around his kneecap with an expression that is meant to be affronted, but mostly turns out to be happy.

“Don’t let your jealousy tear us apart, babe,” he says with a grin before casting his rifle to the ground and encircling the Prince’s shoulders with his arms. He squeezes Fernando into a bear hug and lifts him off the ground in a way that could get him beheaded but probably won’t, because what good would beheading Gonzalo Higuaín really do anybody, really? “Mon petit-prince, where have you been all my life!”

Fernando tinges slightly pink and laughs somewhere near Pipita’s shoulder.

“Mostly avoiding you,” he replies with a very obviously amused grin. “And I had been doing so well too.” 

“I’d be offended, but I know that it’s not really you talking, all of that hair bleach probably seeped through your skull and now it’s infected your brain, I wonder if they’d give me a reward if I turned you in?” Pipita rambles in the way that Pipitas often too. Fernando pulls away from the bear hug and looks at his friend in bemusement. “…for the good of science?” 

“Do they actually let you speak when you’re in formation?” Fernando asks, looking up at Pipita through long eyelashes and resisting the urge to smile in a way that makes his entire face crinkle with one.

Pipita snorts and shoves at Fernando, to which the prince lets out a laugh, an actual laugh, one that Pipita hasn’t really heard in a while. It’s only then that it dawns on Pipita, how long it’s been since he’s seen his friend and, consequently, how strange that is since Fernando used to train with the Knights on nearly a daily basis. He supposes many things have changed since the King and Queen died, most of all his friend himself.

“Can I?” Fernando asks, motioning to the rifle lying neatly across the grass now.

Pipita nods and picks the gun up, exchanging places with the Prince while Fernando positions the weapon and his arm appropriately. Pipita takes a step back, stretching his arms above his head as he watches. 

It’s been a while since Fernando’s shot with the Knights, but he’s still clearly familiar with the weapon, handling it as comfortably as he had months ago. He’s never been as skilled at point-blank targets as Pipita is, but his precision is far better. Between the two of them, they could have made the most formidable knight of them all, although that particular dream is lost to their preferred method of idle time; namely sprawling across Fernando’s bed with bags of Fritos, watching football matches from three countries away. 

Pipita closes his eyes just as Fernando takes the shot. He can hear the release of air as the trigger is pulled and the bullet spits out of the barrel, can hear the slight piece of metal as it smoothly slices through the air, and the sharp thud it makes upon impact. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Fernando has hit the target. It’s not by sound, but instinctual—Fernando hits the target more often than not, it’s just a matter of centimeters from Pipita. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s nauseous, because he has this vision in his head of Fernando, Prince Fernando, the same kid he used to push off the swings and go digging for worms with after it had rained for a week straight. Pipita chose to join the Knights because it was in his family, because to make his father proud and his mother proud and his brothers proud, he would have to sacrifice his life and limbs for their sovereigns and country. He’s never killed, but he’s wounded, and he wouldn’t be hesitant, at the heart of it.

Fernando looks over to grin at him, blond hair sweeping in the wind, and he looks happier than Pipita has ever seen him look, there’s almost a glow to his cheeks. 

“And that’s without months of practice,” Fernando smirks and tosses the gun back at his friend. 

Pipita catches it smoothly and then loops the arm strap over his shoulder. He scrunches his face in mock disdain, although it doesn’t match the tension in his shoulders. 

“Lucky shot,” he grins. Pipita covers his eyes as the sun blares out behind Fernando’s head and he can see a frown flicker across Fernando’s face for just a second before disappearing. He frowns in response. “Hey, Nando—”

Fernando shakes his head slightly, too quickly, and Pipita thinks he looks scared, which is unusual. He thinks, for a moment, that the Prince knows, but how could he know? Instead, he turns his head to look in the direction the Prince is looking in. He sees nothing by the gates out of the ordinary, unless there’s something special about the man with long hair standing uncertainly by it.

Pipita turns back to Fernando just in time to catch it—a ripple of regret or a moment’s concentration that’s entirely too serious. Fernando ends up shaking his head and smiling at Pipita, nervously.

“Nothing, Pip. Hey, I haven’t practiced with swords in a while. You busy?” 

Pipita raises an eyebrow, but the transition is smooth enough. He shrugs with a grin that’s meant to be nothing but comfortable.

“Ohhh you’re just begging to get your ass kicked today, aren’t you mon liege?” 

Fernando laughs, although it’s more haltingly this time. It’s strange, Pipita thinks, the way Fernando’s hand closes around his upper arm. They move across the yard quickly, away from the gate rapidly. 

If Fernando is avoiding the man at the gate, Pipita isn’t sure, but Pipita has his own demons and just seeing Hodgson talking to Navas out of the corner of his eyes makes him shudder.

“Hey, Fer?” he asks quietly as he shuffles along with Fernando, across the courtyard and toward the training hall. 

“Yeah?” 

Pipita frowns, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Have you been to church recently?” 

Fernando casts a curious gaze over his shoulder, questioning Pipita without asking anything explicit. 

“Not really,” he admits with a slight shrug. “I—you know. The Archbishop kind of gives me the creeps.” 

Pipita laughs slightly and nods. He doesn’t ask anything further, simply casts his eyes at the tall spirals of the cathedral and the two smaller figures in front of it. 

Navas looks nervous, somehow, although Pipita’s never spoken to him long enough to tell whether that’s normal or not. The Archbishop is smiling in the kind of way that makes Pipita’s own skin crawl. 

He shudders a little and then nods his head. 

“Ohhhh yeah,” he agrees and follows Fernando in. “Yeah, me too.”

 

///

 

Guti sits on the altar. He’s not particularly religious, which is just as well, because any man with a religious kind of heart would probably be struck dead within seconds of even contemplating such a thing. He crosses his legs, right leg over left, and wraps his ankles together before letting them gently knock back against the wood. He leans back on his hands, surveys the pews in front of him and wonders, vaguely, if there’s wine hidden in the nook behind the altar. He smacks his dry lips, runs his tongue across and finds a perverse kind of joy in undressing Raúl in his mind right here, in front of God himself. 

He likes to taunt the big guy upstairs, sometimes, partially because he likes to push his luck and partially because he’s just so angry, just so often. There’s a blinding kind of migraine that he gets from the stupidity he encounters on a daily basis and he blames his Lord and Savior more often than not. 

“You created them,” he mutters to no one in particular, hoping that someone, specifically, God himself will lend a keen ear. “So you can’t blame me. Your fault, old man.” 

There’s a clearing of a throat somewhere behind him and Guti smirks slowly, tilts his head back until blue eyes settle on an old man as attractive as death itself.

The man has grey hair that sticks up in tufts, a large, hooked nose that vaguely gives him the look of a vulture, and squinty eyes that seem hypercritical just by their very existence. He adjusts the white collar under his protruding double chin, fingers sliding from the stiff material to the thin chain around his neck. He slides his fingers down the chain until they graze the metal cross at the bottom and then his hand encloses it.

Guti snorts, visibly, because he’s fooled by very few pretenses, least of all those created within the church itself. 

“What have I told you about talking to yourself, my son?” Hodgson says mildly as he steps around the altar area. His left hand is holding onto an old, worn copy of the Bible and Guti has to forcibly keep himself from rolling his eyes. 

“Only do it while jerking off,” Guti says pleasantly, with a wide smile. 

Hodgson coughs, uncomfortably, and settles Guti with a sharp look. 

“Oh, did I get the wording wrong?” the blond with the vicious smile asks, seemingly innocent. 

A frown presses itself onto the Archbishop’s face and he crosses himself and closes his eyes, muttering to God or maybe to himself, Guti isn’t particularly sure. 

“After so many years on God’s earth, you would think you’d have some respect for our creator,” Hodgson says lowly, disapprovingly. 

Guti lifts his shoulders in a shrug. He’s stopped leaning back on his palms and examines his fingernails instead. He finds a loose cuticle and bites on his while returning the Archbishop’s look. 

“After so many years on God’s earth, you would think he’d at least let me fuck whoever I’d want to,” is his reply. 

Disgust ripples across Hodgson’s face, namely because he seems to be particularly bad at controlling it. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t particularly care if Guti sees or not. 

“I don’t want to hear about your disgusting habits,” he says and his disdain is clear. 

Irritation ripples through Guti almost immediately, but he keeps calm. Again he shrugs, as though he could care less. 

“Whatever.” 

Hodgson opens his Bible to a passage and seems set on reading something to Guti, but the blond waves his hand in dismissal instead.

“To the point, Hodgson.” 

“Archbishop Hodgson,” the old man says with a glare, but he acquiesces. He takes a seat on the pew in front of Guti and closes the Bible quietly. His fingers drum on the book’s cover as he eyes the Internal Intelligence Director critically. “What progress, José María?”

Annoyance flickers across Guti’s face.

“Don’t call me that.” He stretches his arms and legs slightly before settling on tilting his head. “What do you mean?” 

“You were supposed to—”

“I,” Guti clarifies, “wasn’t supposed to do anything. We had a conversation. You spoke a hell of a lot. Too much. Verbosity obfuscates, Roy, dearest.” 

Hodgson’s eye twitches at either the careless use of the afterlife or by Guti’s existence, in general.

“And you seemed to be in agreement at the time.” 

“I thought you had interesting points,” Guti says, simply.

“Which means what?”

“Say you’re right,” Guti says and finally moves. He waves his hands around in circular motions, as though diagramming the conversation for them both. “Say what Andalucía needs is an integration and the Knights are going to rot under his Royal Highness. Say you’re right and the Catalonians are going to tear the country in half and the Protestants will find their stronghold—heaven forbid, by the way. Like fuck, it’s the 21st century.” 

Hodgson raises an eyebrow, which Guti is more than quick to ignore.

“Two questions—one, why do I care? And two, why would I trust you to do any better than David?” 

The Archbishop seems to contemplate this and Guti watches him carefully, blue eyes gazing with somewhat hidden disgust at the wrinkles covering the old man. 

“Because there’s to be a war, my son,” Hodgson says finally. He closes his eyes again, tips his head back. “God wills it, so there will be a new rule. And within that new order, it would be most beneficial to you to care.” 

“Are you bribing me?” Guti asks slowly, eyes narrowed.

The Archbishop’s eyes flutter open and he settles Guti with a hard stare, eyes glinting in the cool dark of the Catholic Church. 

“Why?” Archbishop Hodgson asks. “Are you saying no?”

 

///

 

There are two columns framing the entranceway to the inner sanctum of the Royal Cathedral. To the right of the right column, there’s a small alcove, hidden from view, but just large enough for two people to stand in. It’s far enough from the altar that it’s unnoticeable, but the ceiling of the church is high and the stone walls echo. From where they’re hidden, they can hear each word painfully clear. 

Kaká takes in a sharp, sharp breath and grasps Cristiano’s wrist. 

“Kaká,” the Portuguese man whispers, but his voice stops short. 

In front of him, Kaká’s eyes are wide, unrestrained fear clouding already dark eyes. 

“Kaká,” Cristiano says again, alarm gripping his heart. Kaká stands frozen, seemingly unable to move or speak beyond the initial Dios, which might have been two syllables created by Cristiano’s worried mind to begin with. 

He grasps the older man by the shoulders and shakes him, but Kaká simply shakes his own head before covering his face with his hands.

“Lord save us,” Kaká whispers as Cristiano hesitates and then pulls him into his arms. Kaká is trembling, slightly, and as Cristiano realizes this, he feels a similar kind of untempered terror. 

“Lord save us,” he whispers in agreement. 

He doesn’t know if he believes in the Lord, not really, but if not, Cristiano thinks, now is probably a good time to start.


	12. Various; Part C. Bojan [i/ii]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _V. Various; **Part C. Bojan [i/ii]**_  
>  **Word Count:** 7,578  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Bojan/Canales ; Fernando Torres, David Beckham  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16 (mostly for swearing – fair warning, this chapter is fluff-heavy? I apologize in advance if that’s not your thing!)  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**V. Various**   
_i'll show you a god_

**[ part c. bojan: i/ii ]**  


Bojan is unfazed by most things. As the youngest of four, the prince who was meant never to be king, he’s never felt the weight of the world on his shoulders and perhaps that’s exactly why he understands the situation so keenly. He’s never had David’s easy charisma or Fernando’s natural military talent, but he’s had razor-sharp instinct since he was a child. When the King and Queen were otherwise disposed, Victoria would tuck him into bed at night, kiss his temple, and whisper words of the future into his ears. To this day he remembers every phrase, thinks about the effect they could have on a dying country if anyone had the courage to speak them aloud. He can see everything falling to pieces and David doing nothing about it and it makes it hard to stand still, sometimes, but that’s never been his duty, so he closes his eyes and draws the picture by himself.

He connects to political theory in a way that none of his siblings ever did and maybe that’s just as well or perhaps that’s life’s own little irony. He’s barely of age to think about himself or for himself, let alone dictate the actions of any other man or a country, so no one asks him his opinions, although truthfully he has plenty of them. He thinks Marx had his point about the conflicts between the bourgeoisie and proletariats and even Machiavelli was interesting in his own, twisted, authoritarian way, but in typical fashion to anyone with a bleeding heart, he’s more infatuated with Locke and Rousseau than the others combined. He keeps a copy of Locke on his bookshelf and he’s turned through the pages so often that they’re worn cream with use. 

There’s never anyone to share his love with, so he reads in the privacy of his own room or under a tree in the courtyard or on top of the tower, next to the bell, so that he can look out at the sprawled palace grounds and the countryside beyond and wonder what exactly he would have to change to combine the two.

 

“You’re always reading,” Sergio says from the foot of Bojan’s bed. There’s an ornate trunk that Bojan likes to stuff his clothes into. He doesn’t have to stuff his clothes anywhere, as a matter of principle, but he does it anyway because it gives him a reason to trap Sergio in his room with him for an hour without excuse.

“Someone in this family has to,” Bojan replies matter-of-factly. It’s less pointed and more comfortable, a warmth and ease he doesn’t feel the need to share with anyone else. He frowns at Sergio, who’s opened the trunk and is wrinkling his face at all of the dirty clothes piled in various states of disarray.

He feels bad, tangentially, immediately, because Sergio is careful about his duty and Bojan isn’t and he realizes it’s because he has much less to lose, but, then, he’s never so careless or irrational as he is when it comes to Sergio.

“Can you stop doing my laundry?” Bojan asks in irritation at the same time Sergio asks, “Can you stop throwing all of your good clothes in here?” 

They both pause to process and stare at each other—glare, really—before Sergio’s face crinkles at the corners and he starts to laugh, loudly, and then Bojan has to shake his head and join him, he really has no choice. Bojan never feels half as light or alive as he does when he’s laughing with Sergio, so he grasps the other boy’s wrist and tugs him up and over the foot of the bed until he’s nearly crawling over Bojan. Not that Sergio has much of a choice or that Bojan minds. 

They take a moment to settle against one another, for Sergio’s body to mold around Bojan’s and for their breathing to synchronize. 

“Will you teach me how to read?” Sergio asks with a wide smile as he lays comfortably over Bojan. Bojan, for his part, breathes out a laugh and threads his fingers through Sergio’s hair. It’s not an uncommon request from Sergio and it’s one of Bojan’s favorites to answer, actually.

“Only if you stay with me tonight and listen to me read,” he replies. It’s not a bit, not really. He always offers and Sergio never accepts. He understands why, of course. He doesn’t know what would be worse, if someone found out that the prince is in love with his best friend or that his best friend is a boy or that his best friend is a boy who happens to be a servant of the palace. Either way, they would be doomed to a sort of tragic Romeo-and-Juliet-esque love affair if Bojan actually gave a shit. It’s lucky sometimes, he thinks, that he’s in a position no one cares about. 

Sergio tucks a stray tuft of hair behind Bojan’s ear and makes a face. 

“Court documents? Again? No thank you.”

Bojan laughs and lets his head fall back on a pillow. 

“No, just like, political theories and old policies and stuff. Shit no one cares about anymore, but I think it’s good to read, you know? Like, maybe if David or some of his asshole advisors read some history or some stupid laws or, you know, anything, ever, they’d want to change _something_ and we could finally be a better country for it.” 

Sergio shifts slightly so that he’s not on top of Bojan anymore, but he tugs the prince so that he’s on his side. They face each other, their noses almost grazing. 

“Who this time?”

“I was just re-reading some of papa’s old notes,” Bojan says, quietly. He nudges Sergio’s chin with his nose, just to have something to do. “No theorists for me tonight, just papa.”

Sergio gives him that smile that makes every feeling spread through Bojan’s body; that naïve little upturn of his lips that isn’t meant to show he understands—because he could never, not really—but that he would be willing to try, if only it made Bojan happy.

“Do you think you could do it better?” he asks, softly. 

That’s not an uncommon question either, but Bojan shakes his head almost immediately with a wry smile.

“I think you’d have to be an idiot to want to be king,” he says.

Sergio opens his mouth, maybe to question what Bojan means, exactly, because Bojan never means exactly what he says, mostly because he never says exactly what he means. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t even make a very appropriate joke about David, although it would be more than easy to. Instead, he smiles and nudges Bojan’s jaw with his nose and presses a shy kiss to his chin. 

“Well I’m not going to complain,” he whispers. “I like having you to myself anyway.”

To which Bojan would say _at least someone does_ , but Sergio doesn’t deserve that and, anyway, Bojan learned long ago that the best way to regulate negative feelings is to not acknowledge them at all. 

He presses a kiss to Sergio’s lips and holds his face there long enough until his heart starts skipping beats in his chest—slowly at first and then rapidly, stutters and skips that makes his head race—and they both have to break apart and gasp for air. Sergio colors spectacularly, happily, and they both tuck their heads close and Bojan describes everything he’s read and been thinking about to Sergio, and Sergio listens eagerly and without interruption until their hour together passes and the laundry is still quite forgotten, although they don’t particularly notice.

 

But Sergio is the exception to any rule, to Bojan’s every rule. He never sees himself as the main character in a tragedy, because Bojan thinks the real tragedy is trying to parallel life with fiction when no number of hypothetical situations could ever accurately reflect reality and, as a general rule, Bojan thinks most people would better serve their lives if they focused on the reality of it anyway. Still, it’s frustrating to him on a personal level that he tries so terribly hard not to feel, how unintentionally isolated he’s become from Fernando and Fernando from David and David from the both of them. He supposes that that’s the reality of the situation; that they’ve lost their parents and their sister’s left them and now that everything’s changed, family is the last thing David is concerned with keeping together. 

It’s a strange feeling to him to pass Fernando and David in the halls, heads tucked down, faces clouded in thoughts Bojan could not possibly begin to uncover. They’re family, but they’re strangers. It’s a lonely feeling, sometimes, to see Fernando smile at Iker and then turn to find no one to talk to himself. He doesn’t need to be taken care of, of course, but he wonders if that isn’t reflective of the larger picture, of the distance between the palace and its people, family in terms of nationality, but a disparate and stark disconnect that puts the two ill-at-ease with one another. 

 

Bojan wakes up before the sun even rises. He rolls under his covers, pitching from side to side, in an attempt to warm his frozen limbs, but every spot on his sheet is ice cold and they freeze to touch on his already chilled skin. He shivers and buries his face into his pillow, thinking this wouldn’t be a problem if _someone_ would spend the night with him and it’s mornings like this that strengthen his resolve to lock Sergio in his room with him against his will. 

He gives up after a minute, squints out from under and find that the curtains have already been cast open. The sky is lightening, but it’s still dark at the touch, which only makes him wonder why he’s awake at all. He remembers the date and thinks maybe that’s it, but he isn’t expecting much from it anyway, so he decides that his body’s stored too much restless energy. He manages to crawl out of bed and into a warm robe, dart across cold tiles into his bathroom to pull on sweats and a sweatshirt and wrap his neck in a scarf that Victoria had knit for him two years ago when she had suddenly been overcome with the inspiration to knit everything for everyone, everywhere, all the time. 

It’s warm enough, though, and he’s stomping into his shoes and then out of his room, all within minutes, the chill air rushing him in a way that his mother, in life, could only have been jealous about. 

He runs the palace ground, feet pounding into the grass to the exact rhythm of the trashy Europop blaring through his earphones. His iPod is tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt and he has difficulty running and changing music at the same time, so he doesn’t bother. His entire face turns pink within ten minutes and he has to shove his hands into his pockets to keep them warm too. The day usually warms as the sun rises, but the sun is still being obstinate, so Bojan tries to cut through the wind before it cuts through him. 

Slowly, around him, the palace starts to wake up. His stamina is amazing, having endured years and years of football practice much to his mother’s chagrin, so he runs without stopping and by the time he’s out of breath, he’s run more laps through the grounds than he’s remembered to count and the sun is positioned rather well in the warmer morning air. His face is flushed pink, so he strips off his scarf and uses it wipe up the sweat on his brow. He’s extracting the earbuds from his ears and winding the cord around his iPod when he feels quick arms dart around his waist from behind and a fleeting kiss to the space right in front of his left ear. It’s faster than he expects and by the time Bojan blinks and turns around, Sergio’s already a good, safe distance away.

“Hi,” Sergio says, grinning. He’s wrapped in too many sweaters and pants that are too big on him. He has earmuffs on and bright orange, knit gloves that don’t match a single thing and a goofy smile on his pink face. 

“Hey,” Bojan answers back. He has that feeling, that sharp tug in his chest, that reckless need to abandon pretenses and pull Sergio into his arms, never mind the consequences. He does it too, almost, but Sergio’s shaking his head, almost as though he knows.

“I saw you running from the window,” Sergio says, gesturing to the palace. “You got up really early.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Bojan says. “Why were you awake?”

Sergio colors slightly and rubs at his face with one of his orange-covered hands.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“ _Don’t laugh at me._ ”

Bojan wrinkles his face. “Fine.”

“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.” 

Bojan’s eyebrows raise comically. “You can’t cook. You’re banned from the kitchens, remember—”

“Shut up!” Sergio scowls. “I wasn’t going to _make_ anything, god, I don’t want you to get food poisoning on your birthday—oh shit.”

“My birthday?” Bojan grins immediately.

“ _Shut up_! God, fuck, this would happen to me,” Sergio groans and covers his face with his hands. “This was not the order it was supposed to go in.”

“What was the order it was supposed to go in?” Bojan’s grin widens. He’s been creeping closer to Sergio, which the other boy has missed entirely since he’s still moaning into his gloves. 

“Well first I was supposed to bring you breakfast in bed, you were supposed to wake up to something hot and lovely that obviously _I_ didn’t cook, probably that I stole from Zizou—no, definitely that I stole from Zizou, let’s be real—and then you were supposed to be really really happy and then I was going to climb into your lap and sing you Happy Birthday.”

“Is this some kind of a fantasy you’ve been thinking out?” Bojan asks, trying not to laugh. He more or less fails and he’s met with a glare for his efforts. 

“Shut _up_. No.” Sergio’s face falls. It’s pink everywhere and more or less adorable. Bojan finds it increasingly difficult to keep from kissing it, also everywhere. “I thought you might like it.”

Bojan’s eyes dart around quickly before he grasps the front of Sergio’s ridiculously knit sweater and pulls him forward. He grips at it with his left hand and lets his right curl at Sergio’s waist.

“Oh, I would have,” he says suggestively. 

Sergio’s eyes, wide and panicked, blink rapidly. He bites his lower lip. Bojan leans forward and kisses it. 

“We can start at the beginning,” he says when Sergio fails to respond. 

The younger boy cocks his head. He’s visibly nervous, his shoulders shaking a little, but his hand creeps to the small of the youngest prince’s back. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Bojan smiles with another kiss to his lips. “You could just wish me a happy birthday.”

“Oh,” Sergio says. He considers this. He seems to agree that this is an acceptable course of action because he leans forward and presses his lips to Bojan’s own. Bojan makes a squeaking noise and Sergio’s eyes flutter open, wide and blinking again. He pulls away with a flushed grin. “Happy Birthday, Bo.”

Bojan’s eyes sparkle. “Well. That’s a start.”

 

He spots Fernando and David later, walking together on a day that clearly neither of them remembers. It makes him frown, his lips turning down in a way that’s trying not to be hurt. Bojan rolls his shoulders to ease some of the tension and stiffness from it, but he supposes he only cares in a place that’s settled deep and untouchable anyway. Two years ago he could have expected his mother to kiss him awake, his father to greet him with a big, booming laugh at a breakfast meant just for the two of them, or for Victoria to reprimand David and Fernando for forgetting, but nothing is the same, least of all, him. He misses it in the way that he misses his mother or father, cherishing what he had but also knowing that he can never have any of it again. He thinks he’s over it, that’s he’s older than this or at least smarter, wiser. 

He’s still just a teenager.

He hurries to catch up to David and Fernando, either due to some misplaced hope or some vestiges of nostalgia. Maybe a little bit of both with a touch of naïveté that he wishes he didn’t have.

“Hey Fer! Dave!” he calls and shuffles forward, trying to smile in a way that isn’t happy or sad. 

He either succeeds or David and Fernando just aren’t looking, because they turn their heads toward him immediately, smiles springing up too quickly on both of their faces. He can tell from the look they exchange, a glance so quick that he would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it, that they’ve been talking about something and the momentary silence and immediate bright smile from David more than proves they’ve filtered themselves for him, yet again. 

“Hey, kiddo, I haven’t seen you sulking around the hall these days, what gives?” David grins brightly. He throws one arm around Bojan’s shoulder. Fernando gives him a more tempered smile, but knocks shoulders lightly in the most subtle and obviously Fernando way of expressing anything possible.

Bojan isn’t bitter enough to reply with _you’d have to be looking for me first_ , but it’s a close call anyway, and he bites back the words only to give his brothers a strained kind of smile. Fernando raises an eyebrow, but David doesn’t notice. 

“Dunno, studying and shit I guess,” he shrugs instead and stretches his arms. Maybe it’s his imagination, but either he’s a lot taller than he used to be or David’s shrunk under the stress of royal duties. His stature seems to fill the space between his two brothers a lot more than it used to.

“Yeah? I’d ask you what you’re studying but—”

“God, please don’t,” Bojan mutters, which makes David laugh and Fernando chuckle. “Once I leave that goddamn room, I make it a rule to not think about anything related to it until I have to go back.”

“Sounds about right,” Fernando adds. It’s about as much as Bojan’s heard him say since the coronation, so he disentangles himself from David and swivels his gaze toward the other blond. 

“Hey, Fer,” Bojan says. He presses the back of his palm to Fernando’s cheek, briefly, in a way that he used to do when he was much, much younger and Fernando still had time, or wanted, to play with him. Fernando doesn’t respond, but a smile flickers across his face. He shakes his head slightly, bleached hair spilling across either side of his face, and Bojan remembers his brother.

It’s just the hint of a moment, though, because as soon as David clears his throat, they resume their positions. 

“So what were you guys talking about?” Bojan asks, casually, as though it doesn’t make a difference. 

David and Fernando probably don’t think he notices the way their shoulders stiffen, but he does. A sliver of irritation ripples up his spine, but he ignores it, as he does most other things. 

“Just, you know, catching up,” David laughs easily. He’s always been a good liar, Bojan has to admit to himself. All it takes is a smile and smooth words and it’s almost impossible not to believe David when he wants someone to believe something. Bojan knows better, though. “It’s been ages since I’ve gotten to see either of you, so I thought I’d catch up with Fer.”

“Right,” Bojan intercedes. “Because you only have one brother.” 

A frown presses against David’s features and he shakes his head almost immediately. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Bojan asks coolly, picking at a stray thread as they walk. 

David laughs nervously and shoots Fernando a look, but his younger brother seems to pointedly ignore it. It makes Bojan even more irritated than before. 

“Stop taking it personally, Bo,” David says with a small smile and a shake of his head. It is, quite possibly, the most insulting thing he could have said. “Brothers talk.”

Bojan’s face curves into an annoyed kind of smile, as patronizing as he feels patronized. 

“So I’ve heard,” is his only reply and the response to it is a strained sort of silence, a tensing of the shoulders and flickering of eyes. Bojan thinks he’s never felt so out of place within his own family, so utterly unneeded or even unwanted. 

He pushes back his hair and shields his eyes from the sun. 

“You can stop pretending,” he says, mouth twisting into a frown. “We’re barely a family anymore, so it’s not like I care.”

It’s a lie, of course, but.

Maybe it’s the way he says it or it’s that he dares to say it at all that stops David in his tracks. Fernando hesitates as well, but Bojan keeps walking. He’s angry, a little—angry at David, angry at Fernando, angry at himself. 

“I can see you two, you know,” Bojan says as he approaches one of the trees on the ground. He stretches up on his toes to pick an apple that’s about to fall anyway. His shirt rides up and it’s apparent how much he’s grown and how much his body has caught up to him. He flattens his feet again, red apple cool in his palm.

“What do you mean?” David asks nervously and that’s when Bojan turns fully to face them. His features aren’t twisted in anything too obvious, although his eyes are a touch too cool, which matches his tone perfectly.

“You’re both idiots,” Bojan says, none-too-kindly. “You walk the grounds every single day at the exact same time and you expect me to believe you just ran into each other?” 

David’s face slackens as Fernando’s contorts. Bojan feels anger pool in the pit of his stomach, frustration coupled with hurt and simmering bitterness that he’s only ever told one person about. He clenches and unclenches his fist, tries his hardest not to dig his nails into the skin of the apple. 

“My window is right above the grounds, David,” Bojan drawls. His eyes are flashing from anger, from words he can barely spit out because, suddenly, he wants to run, he wants to run until his feet start bleeding, he wants to hold his face and shout until his voice crackles dry, he wants to throw punches at David and Fernando until they fucking care again. 

As it is, he does none of the above, simply gestures curtly at the palace instead.

“Top window, third from the right. Not that either of you two would know, because that would require you giving a shit, wouldn’t it?” 

David seems to curl into himself at the exact same moment Fernando finally expands, some emotion _finally_ spilling across his face.

“And it’s taken you this long to come find us? Stop being a fucking drama queen, Bo.”

Bojan tries to steady his breathing through his nose, although he finds that he’s more than hard put to control anything when his blood is thudding near his eardrums. 

“Right, it’s my fucking fault, right? I’m sorry, Fer, I should have known it was _my_ duty to remind my brothers that _they had another one_.”

“Because you’re so easy to find,” Fernando says, not kindly. “If you’re not going to make yourself available, then don’t fucking—”

“Jesus Cristo, what am I, _five_?” Bojan says out of frustration, glaring at Fernando while David begins to look extremely uncomfortable next to him. He looks as though he wants to say something and he does open his mouth once, but he clamps it shut again the second Bojan starts speaking again. “God, Fer, you two don’t give a fuck, I get it, I moved on when I _was_ five. I cried for two days and realized my brothers couldn’t possibly care about anything outside of themselves—”

Fernando’s getting visibly more and more pissed off, not that Bojan’s helping his case any. His face is beginning to tinge pink, his speckles sticking out like they tend to do when he’s upset. David immediately grasps his wrist and even that irritates Bojan, because he already knows how close they are, he doesn’t need more reminders. 

“Stop spewing passive aggressive bullshit, Bojan,” Fernando says through clenched teeth. “If you want to say something, then fucking say it, I don’t have time for your theatrics.” 

“You’re not dad, stop trying to sound like him,” Bojan snaps but draws closer to his brothers the more heated his words get. “I don’t care what you two do without me, but I’m fucking _sick_ of being treated like a kid. Do you think I’m _stupid_ , David? That I can’t tell everything’s falling apart? I live in this palace too, I can tell when Raúl and Guti are in your quarters more often than usual, I can tell when Hodgson is saying veiled shit in church, I can fucking tell when you get ripped apart in the newspapers because guess what, _I can also read_.”

“Are we supposed to be proud of you?” Fernando retorts like the class-A dick that he’s being at the moment. David opens his mouth, possibly to mediate, but he’s overridden by his two younger, more hot-tempered brothers. “So you can tell shit is happening, congratulations, so can anyone with a pulse and more than two brain cells. But there’s a reason dad never called you to council meetings—”

Bojan’s face distorts in anger. He’s nearly upon Fernando and David has to position himself to keep the two brothers from tearing into one another.

“ _Of course he didn’t, Fernando, I was actually a fucking kid while he was still alive_ \--”

“And you’re so much different now—”

“ _Fuck you if you’re going to tell me I’m the same as I was before I lost both of my parents_ \--”

“You aren’t the _only one_ who lost his parents, _Bojan_ \--”

“And when the _fuck_ did I say I was?” Bojan can barely form words beyond expletives, he’s so dizzy with indignant rage. “I might _never_ inherit the throne but _fuck you_ if you think I’m not intelligent or mature enough to handle affairs of the state. I’m not a fucking kid to be _coddled_ , I’m sick of never being respected or treated the way I deserve to be treated.”

“You’re _eighteen_ ,” Fernando snaps and that’s the end point, the one, egregious error that cracks Bojan’s sensibility in half. Bojan lets out a strangle cry and throws the apple in his hand at Fernando’s face as fast and hard as he possibly can.

Fernando steps back instinctively, but catches it deftly and David has to immediately spring forward to hold him back from throwing his entire body at his younger brother in fury. 

Bojan doesn’t care. His face is red, eyes flashing, veins popping out of his neck. He’s breathing so hard he can barely hear David yelling at both of them to _calm the fuck down_. Sergio isn’t even here to hold him back this time, so he digs his nails into his palms until blood starts to sprinkle out. He doesn’t know how he manages to restrain himself, but he thinks, later, that it must have had something to do with how positively stricken David looked.

“ _Nineteen_ , Fernando,” Bojan finally spits out. He turns around and slams his fist into the tree. The bark splits under the force and splinters dig their way into his skin. His skin peels and, immediately, his knuckles stain with blood. 

Bojan doesn’t even curse. He punches the tree out of anger again and then throws David and Fernando the dirtiest, most loathing look he can manage. 

“I am fucking _nineteen_ years old today, you fucking asshole. But I don’t have to be anything to realize you’re both fucking running this country into the fucking ground.” 

It takes a split second for his words to register before David’s hands go slack on Fernando’s shoulders. Fernando stops struggling mid-lunge. Both of their faces go blank, their eyes widen with horror, and for a second Bojan can see remorse or something like it. But by then, he’s too fucking pissed to really care either way. 

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out neither of you know what the fuck you’re doing. If anyone was suited to the throne, it was Victoria. But you know what? She fucking bailed and stuck us with two idiots,” Bojan says venomously. “We would be better off with any government except the one we _currently have_ and it doesn’t take a political genius to figure _that_ out either.”

Bojan wipes his knuckles on the leg of his pants and doesn’t bother to look up into David and Fernando’s faces again. He doesn’t think he could stomach it. 

“But what do I know?” he laughs bitterly. “I’m _only_ nineteen. Sorry. Eighteen, _apparently_.” 

Bojan walks through them, cutting past David and Fernando’s slack bodies, not knowing or, frankly, caring what consequences his words might have on him, on his brothers, on the already ruinous state of the royal family.

 

He doesn’t go back up to his room, not immediately. He has too much unspent energy and unreleased anger thrumming through his veins and his skinned knuckles are smarting on top of it. Every once in a while, Bojan kicks out at something in front of him until he realizes all he’s doing is hurting himself and there’s no one there to stop him anyway. He finds a bench set near the cathedral grounds and sinks down onto it, head thudding from restrained emotions and the distinct need to cry. He doesn’t of course, but he really wants to. 

He’s not prone or used to childish outbursts. Perhaps it’s a function of being the youngest or maybe he simply inherited his quieter nature from his mother, but Bojan had always been known for his calm temper and level-headedness. He supposes it doesn’t matter since no one expects anything from him, but if he _had_ had a reputation, he might well have ruined it in a short fit of anger. In the end he hadn’t accomplished a thing. David and Fernando are probably pissed at him and if he has any idea about what direction to lead the country, they’re no more likely to take his advice at nineteen than they were at eighteen. 

Bojan closes his eyes and tilts his head up toward the sky, breathing in through his nose as slowly as he possibly can. It’s meant to calm his heart rate although it doesn’t particularly work. He can see the sun pounding against his eyelid and the light aggravates his headache.

No one bothers him, but then again, he doesn’t expect anyone to. It’s only when he’s about given up and wrenches his eyes open that he feels someone settle next to him. He tilts his head in time to see Sergio take his bloodied fist into his own, rougher hand. 

“Do you know,” Sergio says, quietly, “it’s almost impossible to find a First Aid kit around this place?” 

Bojan says nothing, but watches as Sergio takes a damp cloth and wipes across his knuckles as gently as he possibly can. Bojan winces slightly at the sting, but Sergio ignores him. He has a dry cloth, a bottle of disinfectant, a roll of gauze and tape in his lap. They don’t speak much as Sergio administers the wound. He cleans it carefully, pressing even harder against Bojan’s knuckles when he hisses in pain from the disinfectant. He shakes his head with a smile and puts the dirtied cloth aside and wraps up his fist in the gauze. 

“There,” Sergio pronounces when he’s done. Bojan tries to flex his fingers under the bandage, but it’s wrapped tightly, so he can barely move them. On the bright side, it hurts significantly less than it did. “You’re stupid, by the way.”

Bojan feels himself deflate almost immediately. The tension and anger melt away so fast that his shoulders droop and his body has trouble keeping up. He tilts his head and rests it on Sergio’s shoulder, for just a second. It’s risky, he knows, but all he wants is one minute when he can be a little selfish. 

“I saw,” Sergio mutters. He pushes the dirtied items off his lap and to the side of the bench and runs a few fingers lightly through Bojan’s hair. “I mean, the entire palace saw, but I saw too.”

“Did anyone hear?” Bojan mutters, a little embarrassed. 

“Not really, but we could tell you were yelling at them,” Sergio says. A hint of a smile flickers across his face although this is anything but funny. “You and Prince Fernando looked like you were going to kill each other. Marcelo was taking bets in the kitchen about who was going to throw the first punch.” 

Bojan wrinkles his face and lifts his head. 

“Which one’s Marcelo again?” 

“The really loud one,” Sergio answers. Bojan gives him a dry look and he laughs. “He has the huge afro and braces.”

“He’s fired,” Bojan says immediately. That just makes Sergio laugh harder and he presses his palm to Bojan’s cheek. It feels nice and warm on his cool skin and Bojan tilts his face into the touch before he realizes it. 

“Well if it makes you feel any better, Zizou was the only person to win because he said you’d both chicken out before throwing anything,” Sergio says brightly to which Bojan looks faintly outraged. Sergio misinterprets and shakes his head quickly. “I bet on you, of course!” 

“Because you knew if I found out I’d be mad,” Bojan says petulantly. 

“No, because I’ve felt your right hook first hand,” Sergio says wryly and touches his fingers to his jaw as ghost pains seemingly return to the offending spot. 

Bojan winces at that and looks thoroughly guilty. He touches the spot lightly too and smiles sheepishly.

“I wasn’t expecting you to kiss me.”

“And I wasn’t expecting you to punch me,” Sergio laughs loudly and Bojan has to admit that it sounds ridiculous when he puts it that way. 

“I made it up to you later,” Bojan counters with a mischievous smile and this time Sergio doesn’t try to come up with a witty reply. Instead, he presses a finger to Bojan’s lips in a shhhing kind of motion. 

“Ah, ah, not in public, your highness.” 

“But in private?” Bojan asks. 

Sergio gets to his feet and pulls Bojan to his. He gathers all of the first aid supplies in his arms and jerks his head toward the palace.

“I owe you a birthday gift anyway,” Sergio says with a laugh. 

 

It isn’t what Bojan expects, admittedly. He locks the door behind them and expects to be pinned immediately, but Sergio throws himself on Bojan’s bed instead. He scoots himself over the side until he’s peering down over it onto the ground on the other end, his ass and legs in the air. Bojan raises an eyebrow and jumps lightly onto the bed next to him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Shhh,” Sergio motions at Bojan’s face. When he resurfaces from his task, he has a wrapped package in one hand and an envelope in the other. He shoves it at Bojan, who blinks in surprise. 

“Sergio what—”

“It’s your birthday, I had to give you a present!” 

“You didn’t have to give me anything,” Bojan says, although there’s the flicker of a smile on his otherwise surprised face. He tugs Sergio toward him and gives him a light kiss on the lips. “Spending time with you is enough.”

“You need to stop watching Meg Ryan movies,” Sergio says, wrinkling his face happily.

“You need to stop making me watch them,” is Bojan’s reply. “What’s in the envelope?”

“Oh this isn’t from me,” Sergio replies. He pushes himself off the bed while waving Bojan on to unwrap his present. “I stole your mail from Iker’s office because he was in a bad mood and also I wanted to make sure there weren’t any love letters for your birthday.” 

He places the envelope on a table and shuffles back to Bojan’s bed. He climbs back up and crosses his legs Indian-style. 

“Who’s going to send me love letters?” Bojan asks quizzically to which Sergio rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“ _Everyone_ , god you’re so slow I’m going to open it for you!” 

Bojan rolls his eyes and takes his time opening the wrapping paper in retaliation. He slides a finger under every taped corner, makes sure not to wrinkle the paper or tear any bit of it. By the time the small box is lying bare, Sergio’s clearly itching from impatience and has scoot closer to Bojan as a result.

“Open it, open it!” he says impatiently. He reaches his hands forward, but Bojan swats it away. He changes tactics instead. “Okay, it really isn’t much, I mean you’re the prince, you already have everything in the world, but I tried, I really want you to like it, if you don’t like it then you should pretend to like it—”

Bojan covers Sergio’s mouth with one hand and looks him in the eyes. 

“Sergio, shut up, you’re ruining the moment.”

Sergio, who apparently didn’t even know they were having a moment, closes his mouth immediately. Bojan withdraws his hand and pulls the lid off the box. He’s not sure what he expects, really, but what he finds is a small white book with a faded cover and curved black writing inked across at a slant. He takes it out of the box and rifles through the pages before looking up at Sergio with soft eyes. 

“De Tocqueville?”

“I asked the man at the store what was close to Locke and Rousseau and he said that Tocqueville came later, but talked about a lot of the same things,” Sergio says quietly, uncertainly. He’s brought his hand up to his mouth and is chewing at a loose cuticle in pure nervous habit. “And I hadn’t seen that book on your shelf so—do you have it?”

But Bojan’s barely paying attention to Sergio’s rambling. His eyes are fluttering in a way that reflects the way his stomach is dipping. 

“You were listening,” he says instead. Sergio blinks in confusion and Bojan shakes his head. “If I’d thought you were actually listening, I wouldn’t torture you with my reading.” 

Sergio looks confused.

“You don’t torture me, Bo. I like hearing your thoughts.” He smiles in the way that made Bojan notice him in the first place. “You just have a lot of them.” 

Bojan grins and puts the book down to press a kiss to Sergio’s lips. 

“Thanks, Serge. It’s perfect.”

Sergio practically beams, but he shakes his head. 

“Wait, I’m not done, though.”

Bojan raises a confused eyebrow just before Sergio shoves the wrapping paper and box off the bed. He puts the book carefully off to the side and then his hands are on Bojan’s shoulders and he’s pushing him back down onto the pillows. He crawls over Bojan with a completely different kind of smile on his face. 

“That was just part one,” Sergio says. His face hovers just a few inches above Bojan’s and Bojan instinctively threads his hand into Sergio’s fast-lengthening hair. “Are you ready for part two?”

“Yes your highness,” Bojan breathes out, eyes glinting, and Sergio grins widely before starting at the back of his jaw and kissing his way forward.

 

They stay together an hour, never longer, because any longer and someone would notice. Bojan stops him by the door, takes Sergio’s face in between his hands and kisses him until they’re both breathless again. Sergio wrinkles his very pink features and tries to regain his breath. 

“Happy birthday,” he says and kisses Bojan’s cheek. 

“Thanks,” Bojan grins while straightening his rumpled clothes. “Thank you again. For my present. …both of them.”

“Well I only really had to work for one of them,” Sergio says, eyes twinkling. He pats Bojan’s warm face. “You can decide which one I’m talking about.”

Bojan scowls in good nature and Sergio smiles as he reaches for the door handle. Then he stops. He turns back to Bojan, with a cautious look on his face. He tilts his head. 

“Bo, you have it all, you know that right?” 

“Have what?” Bojan asks, confused. 

“ _Everything_ ,” Sergio says, emphatically. “Not just books and ideas, but you know. _Everything_. You’re a prince too. This is your country too, you know? If you don’t like what your brothers are doing, then do something about it.”

“But they don’t ask me to—”

“So?” Sergio laughs. “When has that ever stopped you before? If they won’t listen, then talk to someone who _will_.” 

Bojan still looks doubtful, so Sergio leans forward and smoothes the crease between his eyebrows. He wraps his arms around Bojan’s shoulders in a firm, affirmative hug. 

The last thing Sergio says before peeling away is, _Even if no one else does, I believe in you_ , and Bojan thinks that, as horrifically cheesy as it is, that belief is the best birthday present anyone could have given him. 

 

He settles on his bed after Sergio leaves, somewhat hungry and almost immediately lonely, but not particularly willing to leave the privacy of his quarters just yet. Now that he’s had more than two minutes to think and can hear past the pounding of blood in his ears, he distinctly feels like an ass. An overdramatic one, to be specific. He picks up his cell phone, meaning to text Fernando, or at least David, an apology, but then sets it back down on his bed. He’s still not sure whether he was unjustified in his outburst regardless of his less-than-elegant means of delivering it.

Instead, he reaches over to his bedside table for Tocqueville, skims over words as he flips through the small pages. Alexis de Tocqueville isn’t an unfamiliar figure to him. They covered him briefly in tutoring, although Bojan had had a much deeper interest than was publicly permissible. _Democracy in America_ had long since been banned in Andalucía, so the fact that Sergio was able to procure a copy at all was not only surprising, but telling.

“That’s what the people want,” Bojan mutters to himself before falling back on his bed. He waves his arms around grandly, as though he can diagram a larger picture that he can barely even see. “ _Democracy_.”

It’s easier said than done and larger and greater empires than Andalucía have fallen for it. Bojan makes no excuses about comparing his own, small kingdom to Rome during its height, but sometimes he has delusions of grandeur that they could be just as great on a smaller scale if they died for a republic the way the Romans had. 

He chews on his bottom lip, thinking, and rolls onto his stomach and then back onto his back until he realizes he’s entirely too fidgety to remain in any one position for more than a few seconds. He resigns himself to a life of annoyance and pulls himself back up to a sitting position, legs crossed Indian-style, and rocking back and forth as though he’s seven years old and has too much energy to burn. He was possibly even calmer at seven years of age, but that’s neither here or there. 

He pushes his hair back from his face and has almost decided to hunt Sergio down again out of sheer boredom—or, briefly, considers texting José Angel although they haven’t talked in a good two months or more, which is Bojan’s fault really for being all of 80 years old in a teenager’s body—when he spots the envelope left for him on the table. He can’t see who it’s addressed from, although he doesn’t think he sees a stamp or a return address anyway, which is strange. 

Bojan untangles himself from his position on the bed and hops off of it toward his dresser table. The envelope is small and the writing on top is looped in a cursive that looks faintly familiar to him, although he can’t place where he might have seen it. He turns it around and opens it far less ceremoniously than he did his present earlier. 

There’s a letter folded three times over a small sheaf of glossy paper that seems to be a pamphlet of some sort. He skims over the muted colors of the pamphlet, white letters set onto a dark and fairly inconspicuous background. He sets it aside, deciding to read it later, too curious about the letter to pay much attention to anything else. He unfolds the off-white piece of paper and his eyes fall on that same looped cursive as he begins to read a letter that isn’t signed.

> _My Beloved Bojan,_
> 
> _First of all, happy birthday._
> 
> _Second of all, I’m sorry. But I think it’s time you knew._


	13. Various; Part C. Bojan [ii/ii]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _V. Various; **Part C. Bojan [ii/ii]**_  
>  **Word Count:** 3,867  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Bojan/Canales ; Fernando Torres, David Beckham  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**V. Various**   
_i'll show you a god_

**[ part c. bojan: ii/ii ]**  


Bojan reads the letter once and then again. He folds it and tucks it back inside its envelope and places it on a shelf far away from his bed. He sits back down on the bed, cross-legged and stares at it. In another minute, he’s up again, crossing the room to take it down, to open the envelope and slide the letter back out. He rereads it for a third time, a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, like a familiar tug that he can’t quite recognize. His eyes slide over the words and then he mouths them, careful not to say them out loud and folds it one last time. It’s a strange feeling, like the weight of the world has suddenly shifted to his shoulders. It’s an even stranger feeling for it to feel like it actually belongs there.

 

Bojan and Sergio gather close outside, past a reasonable hour because Sergio’s duties for the day are done and the night is trailing away on the tail end to his birthday. They whisper, close together, and when he smiles, it’s not troubled. 

Sergio threads his fingers through Bojan’s hair and looks at him fondly, quizzically.

“What did you do?” 

Bojan answers with a raised eyebrow of his own, but he shakes his head with a smile, because Sergio is instinctively too good and he finds it a terrible waste to pretend otherwise.

“Nothing I can tell you,” Bojan murmurs. He takes his bottom lip in between his teeth and chews on it, considering.

“Nothing that was ever good ever began with those words,” Sergio says. 

“Nothing that was ever good was ever easy,” Bojan says and Sergio’s face softens, like those were the words he’s been waiting to hear all along.

He’s nervous, stomach twisting into knots and he has to keep himself from standing up and pacing around in a way that’s entirely too obvious. Sergio is the one who keeps him there, one hand on his own. By the time his brown eyes flicker past Bojan and he slides away, the prince isn’t surprised to see Fernando approaching in the distance. 

“He’s your brother, Bo,” Sergio whispers as he extracts himself. He presses a quick kiss to the underside of Bojan’s jaw while Fernando is still far enough away. “They’re the only ones you’ve got left. And me, but I’m not family.”

Bojan misses Sergio’s presence almost immediately, but that’s not particularly new. He seems to miss Sergio most times when he’s not with him and it’s a problem, but not one he can afford to mull on at the moment. He straightens his sweatshirt around his arms as he stands in greeting. Fernando has on a similar sweatshirt and it’s one he recognizes, because their mother thought it was delightful to dress all three of her sons the exact same way when no one was looking. The sleeves go past Fernando’s fingertips because he took David’s when Bojan stole his. Bojan has no idea where his went, although he has a sneaking suspicion that Sergio snuck it for his own during the early days of their relationship. 

Bojan offers a tentative smile at the recognition and Fernando shakes his head with one of his own. 

“Mama’s heart would break if she knew David didn’t have one,” Fernando says coyly. He rubs his hand across his nose in a way that’s become so automatic for him that he doesn’t even notice. Similarly, Bojan reaches out a hand to tug Fernando’s wrist away unconsciously, in a way that’s more force of engrained habit than anything else. 

“You can’t wipe them away,” he says.

“I gave up on that years ago,” Fernando answers with a wry smile. He folds his long fingers into the excess material of his sweatshirt and rubs it across his nose again.

“Remember the time you tried to bleach them away?” Bojan asks. 

Fernando’s face twists in the memory. 

“I don’t think I’ve had a worse idea in my entire life.”

“I tried to stop you.”

“David didn’t.”

“If you were expecting David to stop you from doing _anything_ , maybe you deserved the pain,” Bojan laughs. He shifts his weight from one leg to another and Fernando scowls up at the palace, presumably at David. 

“I’m like ninety percent sure it was his own fucking idea,” he says, which only makes Bojan laugh harder. 

“Mama yelled at you for days,” Bojan remembers.

“Papa wouldn’t _look_ at me for days,” Fernando says, shaking his head. They quiet then, into the comfortable sort of silence latent in nostalgia. The air cools around them and fireflies flicker into existence, lighting a path to the palace. 

Fernando starts walking, slowly, and Bojan follows. 

“I miss them,” he says, finally, so quietly that Bojan thinks this is probably the first time he’s ever admitted it. 

“I think about them every day,” Bojan admits. “Big things, sometimes, like what my future would have been like if they were still alive or whether they’d like the person I’m becoming. But little things too, like what Mama would have wanted for dinner or who Papa would have supported in Eurovision.”

Fernando murmurs in agreement. He’s so quiet that Bojan can hear his breathing and he thinks maybe the reason he and Fernando don’t see eye-to-eye anymore is because Fernando lives to forget and he never forgets to remember. 

“I was mad at them, at first,” Fernando says softly after so long that Bojan thinks he’s forgotten he has company. “I know it’s irrational, but I was angry at them for dying and leaving us. Most parents leave their children a house, we got a country.”

“I was too,” Bojan admits. “I just got over it faster, I guess.” 

“It’s just. I never felt good enough when they were alive, how am I supposed to live up to their deaths too?”

Bojan has no response to that. They walk along side-by-side until Bojan can feel the cold air sinking down past his layers. They’re quiet, each wrapped up in thoughts and memories unique to themselves. Bojan remembers walking with his father late at night, hand-in-hand when he was younger, and then just following quietly when he was older. If he forgets himself for just a moment, Fernando could almost be their father, this could almost be another memory.

“Do you ever regret not being yourself with them, Bo?” Fernando finally breaks the silence. He tilts his head up and watches little pins of light appear in the sky. “There was so much expected of us all of the time. I hated every bit of it. Sometimes I fought it, but I never said no. David did, but I didn’t.”

“David said no to most things, to be fair,” Bojan answers lightly, but he shakes his head. “I like to think that Mama and Papa knew who we were and what we wanted for ourselves, but that they wanted something bigger for us.”

Fernando looks over at Bojan curiously. Bojan stretches his arms above his head, standing up on his tiptoes and stretching all of the cramped muscles in his body. 

“I know they were King and Queen first and Mama and Papa second, but they were still our parents,” he says. “I think Papa hated making us hate him. Mama definitely did, I could see it in her face.”

“I guess I could never read them half as well as you,” Fernando says, shaking his head. “I thought we had all of the time in the world. Eventually I was going to grow out of whatever it was that I was going through, but they were supposed to be here when I did.” 

Bojan shrugs slightly, not out of dismissal, but because he truly doesn’t know what to say. Maybe it was the lack of immediate pressure, but he was never nearly half as wary of the King and Queen as his siblings were. 

“We can’t afford to make the same mistake again, Fer,” he says finally and that’s when they both come to a halt. Fernando twists to face Bojan and Bojan pulls himself up taller, makes sure his eyes are clear with his pronouncements. “We don’t have time.”

Fernando tilts his head and studies Bojan in a steely manner. His shoulders tense as he seemingly considers this, but then he lets go, the fight gone from his shoulders and his eyes.

“Yeah,” he admits. He runs a hand through his hair and nods. “Fuck, I know.”

“Does David?” 

“David knows too,” Fernando says. “He just doesn’t know what to do about it.” 

Bojan thinks, _I might. I might know_ , but he doesn’t say it.

“He can stop listening to Papa’s old advisors for one,” Bojan says instead. Fernando looks at him curiously, so he explains. “Listen, Papa was king for a long time. When he took the throne he was ready for it. He took some of abuelo’s advisors and some of his own and their policies worked well for him. For _him_. Fer, what kind of king do you think David is?” 

“Not the kind Papa was,” Fernando says. Bojan nods vigorously.

“Exactly. He can’t use what Papa did because he doesn’t think the same way. He’s going to be controlled by policies he doesn’t know and advisors he doesn’t trust.” 

“He has Iker,” Fernando reasons.

“No one listens to Iker and you know it,” Bojan says. Fernando frowns in a way that indicates his agreement. “I love Iker as much as you do and he’s the best advisor David has, but he’s on a council and if he’s the only voice speaking for David, then it’s not much good. I don’t trust half of them—”

“Like who?” Fernando interrupts sharply. Bojan isn’t fazed.

“Guardiola for one. I’ve read through his policies and stances and, frankly, I don’t think David would agree with half of the shit he thinks even if everyone else did. They’re old foreign policies and approaches that would have been appropriate thirty or even twenty years ago, but have no place right now.”

Fernando’s frown deepens. “Like—”

“Like the fact that every policy suggestion he has is a reflection of the same anti-Soviet bullshit that his father had suggested 40 years ago,” Bojan says hotly. “The Soviets fell two decades ago, what are we doing focusing on anti-communist policies and keeping Russia out of our diplomatic efforts? It’s wasting time and does shit-all for our deteriorating relations with every other non-Soviet country out there. As in, all of them.” 

Fernando looks equally disturbed and surprised, as though he had never imagined Bojan could have such complex thoughts or lofty opinions or that he would know any such policies had existed at all. Indeed, both were probably more or less true. 

“And don’t get me started on Hodgson—”

At this, Fernando lets out an unrestrained laugh. 

“I don’t think anyone is on a different page about Hodgson,” he says with distaste. 

Bojan shakes his head in exasperation.

“Then why is he _still_ in control, Fer?” 

“Because David doesn’t have the power to replace him.”

“No, because David doesn’t have the balls to.” 

Silence follows this pronouncement as Fernando looks at Bojan, open-mouthed, and Bojan doesn’t bother looking abashed about it. He shrugs anyway and looks away. 

“He’s my brother and I love him but—”

“You’re right,” Fernando says and for the first time, Bojan looks at him in surprise. Fernando exhales noisily, but it’s with a wry smile. “You’re absolutely fucking right. He’s too fucking nice and you can’t be nice when you’re king. You have to decide what the fuck you want and be a dick and get it.”

“So you’re saying you’d be a better king,” is Bojan’s reply just before Fernando shoves at his shoulder and they both burst into laughter. Their laughs spiral out above them in a puff of visible white in the cold and they rub their hands together and knock shoulders in a manner that’s completely friendly and completely unlike them. 

“I’m sorry,” Fernando says finally, softer than before. He looks at Bojan apologetically and Bojan knows he means it. “For being a dick earlier. And for forgetting your birthday. I know I’ve been a shit brother lately, I guess I didn’t realize how much.”

Bojan shrugs his shoulders but smiles at Fernando to show that he understands and accepts. 

“I probably could have handled it better,” he says. “I know you’ve been busy. I’ve barely seen you around.”

Fernando shakes his head lightly, as though he doesn’t want to talk about it, and Bojan doesn’t push. There are no brotherly psychic abilities lost between them, but he’s a good read of character, and he’s finally too relaxed to fuck that up with something that Fernando clearly doesn’t want to deal with. 

Instead, Fernando reaches his sleeve-covered hand forward and presses the back of his hand to Bojan’s cheek.

“Happy Birthday, Bo,” he says quietly, so just the two of them can hear. “I’m sorry they couldn’t be here to see the person you’ve become.”

“He’s not all that great anyway,” Bojan says as he squeezes Fernando’s wrist in response.

“Nah,” Fernando says grinning. Then he tilts his head and presses a fond kiss to the young prince’s forehead. “But you’re going to be.”

 

It’s not a turning point but a catalyst. What he feels isn’t a burden but a self-righteous indignation, a determination so pointed that it makes his palms itch from anxiety. He’s wasting time, he thinks, and never has that made him more nervous. Fernando tells him when the Council meets now and every day he’s a little less enchanted with it. He thinks Raúl looks tired, like he’s hiding a particular burden, that Guti looks dubious, that Hodgson and Guardiola and Benitez could not know less about the country if they tried. He thinks David looks so overwhelmed it hurts him somewhere, a strike to his chest, and Fernando looks like he’s torn between two lives he can’t choose from. Bojan watches, but he isn’t allowed to speak, and that makes him more impatient than anything else. 

 

“Prince Bojan will participate in Council from here on,” David says the first day and Bojan can’t quite shake the feeling of the Archbishop’s eyes boring into the side of his neck. 

“Well we need young blood,” Guardiola laughs and there’s a room of tittering old men who don’t have a clue. Iker smiles from the other side of the table apologetically.

“I’ve known Bojan his entire life and he’s probably wiser than most people in this entire room,” Iker says. The laughing quiets a little and Bojan gives Iker a grateful look.

“Well that isn’t hard,” Guti says, dryly, and the entire room laughs again, as though he’s made a joke. Bojan tilts his head and Guti’s eyes glitter with amusement and he knows immediately that he hasn’t. 

“Shall Council come to order then?” the Archbishop says curtly and Bojan swears his skin crawls just at the man’s voice. He thinks he can still remember the Archbishop’s expression, as though something he had planned to go his way hadn’t and he wasn’t pleased about it at all. 

 

“You’re impatient,” Sergio says to him one day, on a day that Bojan can’t shake from his skin. He paces himself into the ground and before he realizes what his fingers have closed around, Tocqueville crumples in his fist.

“Dios mio, Bo,” Sergio laughs. He crawls on the ground next to Bojan and lays down so that their bodies are touching. He presses a kiss to Bojan’s neck. “You’re impatient. Jesus fuck, do something about it.”

 

It’s not so much a turning point as a catalyst.

 

It’s nearly dead silent in the morning when he leaves. He pulls his hood over his head, hides his body under an inconspicuous sweatshirt and khaki pants so old they would never be befitting a young prince or anyone else living in the palace. They’re a pair he stole, a long time ago, when he thought doing something, anything, less than proper could get him the attention he craved. It didn’t, but he had kept the pair of pants as a trophy of sorts, to remind himself that the lines painted for him aren’t necessarily the ones he has to fill in. 

There’s movement in the kitchen, maids and servants sleepily walking through the halls in the half-daze that accompanies dawn. Bojan’s never been awake this early, has never really had a reason to be. He chews on a nail nervously and flattens himself to a wall, but no one passing by notices or if they do, they don’t particularly care. He makes a quick minute of slipping out, runs quickly and quietly and doesn’t look around to see if anyone is following. No one is. No one ever is. 

The young prince doesn’t call a cab. He doesn’t use a car or a bike or any mode of transportation. It’s the dead of morning and before the palace is even awake, Bojan runs.

 

**[ part d. xabi ]**

 

There are a variety of people in Xabi’s life that he would not have chosen if he had any choice in the matter. Fàbregas and Piqué are bad enough, but there’s Arbeloa and Albiol and Guti on the rare occasion that Guti wants or needs something. Xabi is not unused to strange requests and trying circumstances.

What bothers him about the email isn’t that it sounds short and urgent. What bothers him isn’t even that there’s a 90% chance that this is a ploy, a complete set-up created to do more than sabotage. He’s more than intrigued and more than tempted. Xabi Alonso is not a risk-taking person in the standard definition of the term, but he has nerve. He believes in his cause and in a naïve, optimistic kind of way, he holds inherent the success of his mission that dismisses all possible failures throughout. Which is to say when he opens the email and sees the signature at the bottom, his first instinct isn’t to second-guess its authenticity, but to close his eyes and believe in it.

What bothers Xabi, actually, is that it’s barely 6 AM and he hadn’t anticipated how dark the warehouse would be before the sun rose. He sips at his coffee, trying to ease his developing headache, and looks around for the proper light switch.

“Are you still there?” he mutters into his Blackberry as he does so.

“Yeah love, although I’m dead tired and also dead against this,” Steven’s voice comes. 

“Just be there to listen,” Xabi says. He finally finds the light switch and flips it. A few fluorescent bulbs flicker into life. It honestly makes the warehouse look even more ominous than it had before. It’s their own establishment, a safehouse for the movement if need be. It’s a risky move, meeting him here, but Xabi couldn’t think of anywhere else that they would be safe for a conversation. He knows the warehouse completely anyway, has memorized every turn and corner, so he has home field advantage should it come to it.

He hopes it doesn’t. He’s incredibly tired. 

“Be sure to give a yell if I have to break in,” Steven yawns on the other end of the line. “I can’t promise I’ll be fast. Maybe I’ll drive the car in through the door.”

“Steven, for the love of all things good in this world, none of which probably exist right now but please humor me, _shut up_ ,” Xabi grumbles. 

He hears a low chuckle on the other end before hearing a door creak open. Xabi immediately puts the phone in his front jacket pocket and hoists himself up on a desk and waits. 

 

He isn’t very big. Xabi wasn’t expecting him to be big, but expectations and reality are two separate things and the reality is that the boy simply isn’t very big. He’s trying to fold into himself as he walks, tucks in his limbs and looks around the warehouse nervously. Xabi is relieved, partially because he exists, first of all, and secondly because anyone so visibly nervous of a warehouse couldn’t possibly have heavy ammunition on him.

In theory.

Xabi clears his throat and the young man’s eyes swivel toward him. He nods slightly and then approaches Xabi from a distance. He’s extremely cautious about his steps and Xabi approves on one level and doesn’t blame him on another. 

“Why did you want to meet here?" the voice is so young and hesitant that Xabi can’t help but let his shoulders relax somewhat. His face softens in response; he doesn’t want to appear confrontational. Not today.

"No one will find us here. You don't have to worry."

The boy doesn't seem sure.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” he asks.

Xabi chuckles. 

“Don’t I have more reason to fear that from you?” he asks and the boy wavers. He seems torn between confidence and complete anxiety. It reflects his age, Xabi thinks. And that age is young, so very young, his mind addends. 

"You have no reason to believe me, but—you contacted me, remember?" Xabi says, his voice as accommodating as he can make it. He knows what this mean, knows how important this could be for the movement, for the end goal, for the country.

"I know," the boy says again and Xabi can faintly make out his outline, fiddling with his sweatshirt.

"Are you going to come closer?"

There's a tense pause and even Xabi Alonso's patience is starting to fray along the edge, when the boy seems to nod his head and shuffle forward. 

"I'm sorry, I know I mean, this isn't— I—" the boy tries to formulate words, but Xabi can tell that he's nervous. He's nearly shaking. Xabi's reminded of one of his younger brothers and his face softens even more.

"Do you want to go somewhere els—”

"I'm scared," the boy manages to say and this time his voice isn't a squeak, but sure of itself. Xabi studies him as he shifts from one leg to another, his neatly combed, dark hair springing and flaring out at the bottom. He's dressed in a baggy sweatshirt, only marked in how unmemorable it is. To the average person, he would look like just another teenager. 

But he isn't. 

"We're all scared, Prince Bojan," Xabi says softly and this time the little prince stares Xabi in the eyes and lets out a little breath. 

"I know," he says again and then takes a deep breath. "That's why I want to help."

Xabi studies Bojan carefully, meets brown eyes that have stopped wavering. He’s still shaking, slightly, but his back is straight and he won’t look away. What Xabi sees isn’t hesitation, but determination.

“Help what?” he asks carefully. 

Outside, morning starts to peek into the sky. The pale grey creeps past the only windowpane in the room and a cold wind rattles against the glass. There’s no sun today, but that hardly matters to Xabi. He’s watching the youngest prince in Andalucía. 

“Help you, Alonso,” Bojan says, steadily. “I want to help you take the kingdom.”


	14. Fernando; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VI. Fernando; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 7,869  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres; Iker Casillas, Gonzalo Higuaín & various cameos  
>  **Chapter Rating:** R for language  & sexual situations  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**VI. Fernando**   
_don’t waste your time_   


He struggles with it long enough to understand that there’s right and there’s wrong and while this may be right, the fact that he has to struggle with it at all is wrong. Fernando’s never bound himself to a strict definition of sexuality, mainly because he’s never been with anyone but the princess. He occupies a strict role, as son, as brother, as prince, and any definition beyond that is external and extraneous. It gives him freedom in many spheres, except, apparently, in where it matters. Fernando thinks he loves Olalla because he’s never had a choice. But Sergio makes a difference. He feels good with Sergio, is the thing. He’s undoubtedly attracted to him, undeniably cares for him, smiles with him more than anyone, without a doubt. He’s a different person around Sergio and he can’t figure out why and honestly doesn’t want to. He wants to linger on that kiss, on the way Sergio’s hair felt in his hands, on the way they were both panting and trailing when they pulled away. He wants to find Sergio again, take him up somewhere and eat with him, talk with him, watch the stars or fuck, and it’s a problem. It’s about a _boy_ , Fernando thinks and while it may not be fair to Olalla, it is least of all, fair to him.

 

He doesn’t hear from Sergio for days, at first. He’s not particularly worried because Sergio has disappeared for days at a time before. He’s never been very good at checking his phone, voice messages, texts, or otherwise, and Fernando knows how busy he is. He has his own state of affairs to attend to, so it doesn’t bother him, at first. 

Then days stretch into a week and Fernando thinks he feels the first pang the first Thursday he misses at Pepe’s. He thinks he won’t go, thinks he’ll be able to restrain himself if he sits himself on his bed, locks the door and bores himself into a daze. He watches the clock every so often and when it’s clear that only a half an hour has passed instead of the twelve it’s felt like, he decides one more time can’t possibly hurt. He shrugs into the most ordinary clothes he can find, covers his conspicuous hair with a hat, and slips out of his quarters. He’s down his hall and halfway to the yard when he sees Iker coming toward him. 

Fernando turns his face, tries to avoid him entirely, but Iker sees him—or sees through him—before he can blink.

“Fernando,” Iker says with a smile, at first, and then a flicker of hesitation, second, and then a slight frown, lastly. Fernando is about to open his mouth when he gives his head a sharp shake. His features curve into a frown and he looks truly as sorry as he sounds when he says, “Fer, don’t.” 

Fernando holds himself, first through indignation, then through frustration, and then through resignation. His fingers are clenched, eyes flickering over his shoes. He wishes he didn’t feel it in his stomach, the way the hope plummets with his heart. 

“Where would I be going, Iker?” Fernando laughs lightly, finally. The smile doesn’t go to his eyes. His stomach churns with guilt, instead. “I was just taking a walk.”

“Care if I walk with you, then?” Iker asks.

Fernando nods. They walk, but they don’t speak at all. 

 

It’s the first Thursday at Pepe’s Fernando misses. He feels it sharp, not like a missed plan, but like a missed breath, as though his head’s been dunked underwater and he’s let a bubble of air escape and had nothing to replace it with. His gut twists with guilt, but mostly disappointment. He spends the rest of the night staring up at his ceiling and when he falls asleep, it’s to memories he never expected to have in the first place. 

He expects a phone call or a text. When he doesn’t get one that night, he feels disappointed, but mostly guilty. The second night, he worries just a little. The third night, the worry changes to anxiety. The fourth night, he wakes up in the middle of sleep, sweating, wondering if something might have happened. He thinks he has a feeling, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, that something has, that something did. 

 

Fernando tries calling Sergio exactly one week and one day from that Monday. The phone rings and his stomach twists. He hasn’t chewed his nails since he was a child, but he finds himself nearly gnawing off his thumbnail. He shifts his weight impatiently from foot to foot, wondering what course of action he can take, as prince, if something _has_ happened. 

_I’ll bring him to the palace, first_ , he thinks to himself. 

_I’ll feed him until he can’t possibly eat anymore, second_ , he adds. 

_I’ll make sure he’s never out of my sight again_ , he finishes and it’s only then that he realizes how truly worried he is. Fernando squats to his knees and tries to breathe in and out through his nose. 

Sergio’s phone rings multiple times before going to an as-of-yet unset voicemail box. Fernando counts to ten and tries again. 

This time the phone rings multiple times, but on the fifth ring—Fernando keeps count—the line clicks as someone picks up.

“Sergio?” Fernando breathes out. “Sergio, are you okay?”

There’s a staticky, shuffling sound on the other end and the clearing of a throat.

“Er, who is this?” a completely unfamiliar man’s voice says. His voice is deep, certain, soothing. 

Fernando has no idea who it could be, but he knows it isn’t Sergio’s voice. There are multiple reasons someone else could be answering Sergio’s phone, he supposes, but he can only think of one.

Fernando hangs up the phone and puts his face in his hands and breathes out harshly. The problem isn’t that Sergio might be seeing someone else. The problem is that Fernando might actually care if he does. 

 

Iker takes Fernando out for drinks one night. It’s not so much _out_ as to the top of the tower with a cooler full of assorted beers, vodkas, tequilas, and shot glasses, but he’s the prince, so it’s as close to a night on Andalucía as he’ll get without the aid of a disguise. He’s hesitant at first, but it’s Iker and Fernando really could use a drink or seven. He opens a bottle of beer the second Iker sets the cooler down and he ignores the look the older man gives him.

“I’d say pace yourself but.” 

“Just make sure I don’t fall off the tower and we’ll call it even,” Fernando says. He tips back the bottle and wishes for something stronger, but that will come in time. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his side against the stone wall. 

He expects Iker to say something, _anything_ , but he doesn’t, for the longest time.

Iker settles across from him and opens a bottle of beer himself. He knocks back most of it as they watch lights flicker on across the city. When he finally talks, it’s as honest as Fernando has ever heard him.

“I knew a long time before anyone else did. A lot of guys realize it when they’re watching TV or looking at catalogues or just can’t seem to get off to straight porn.”

Fernando stretches his legs in front of him and sips at his beer until it’s nearly gone. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and leans his head against the wall.

“When did you?”

“When I was young,” Iker begins, slowly. “There was a boy.” 

 

At the beginning, he’s just a little surprised to find out that Iker’s gay, that he’s always been gay. By the end of two bottles of beer, a glass of coke and vodka, and two or three shots of tequila, Fernando can’t believe that he had never known. 

He’s not _completely_ smashed yet, but he’s drunk. It makes him a lot looser than he is normally, a lot more talkative. Iker is quite a few shots behind the young prince, on purpose, but even he smiles more than usual. He’s loosened his tie, shrugged off his jacket, undone a button or two.

“It’s stupid don’t you think?” Fernando says. He taps his feet together in a strange sort of rhythm. 

“What is?” Iker asks. He opens another bottle of beer. Fernando makes grabby hands and he passes it over. 

“I dunno. Everything. The law. The Church.” Fernando frowns as he raises the bottle to his lips. “The law.”

“You mean the homophobic ones?” Iker says carefully.

“Yes _those_ ,” Fernando says with distaste. “Who cares, you know? I mean do you care, Iker? _Do you_?”

Iker considers this as he opens a bottle for himself.

“I care about you,” he says.

“No, not _that_ ,” Fernando shakes his head. “I mean who cares, right? As long as I’m not stealing money or like, fucking, war or something. It’s just kissing. Or sex. Who cares who I have sex with?” 

Iker raises an eyebrow and chuckles to himself.

“I don’t, in that case,” he says. “No one else should, either.”

“Exactly. _Exactly_. No one should. I like him. So who the fucks cares? I _like him_.”

“Who is he?” Iker asks then. He’s sober enough to know he shouldn’t, but a little too inebriated to care that he’s asking anyway.

“He plays music,” Fernando says with a grin. “Really good music. Um, flamenco. And he’s poor. So, so poor. But he has the best hair and the best smile and he’s so so funny and _fuck_ he’s a good kisser, _fuck_.”

“Did you and he—”

“ _No_ ,” Fernando frowns. “No because you said—remember, you said? Forget him. Fuck Iker, I tried. I tried but now I think he’s dead.”

That makes Iker frown as well. He straightens himself up, pulls his legs in close to his body.

“He’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” Fernando admits. “Maybe. He doesn’t answer his phone. I mean he’s probably pissed because I fucking—but what if he isn’t? What if he died because he was so hungry, _fuck_ Iker, he’s so skinny. He’s so skinny I just want to feed him.”

Iker looks at Fernando sympathetically. Fernando’s too drunk to notice, but it’s sincere in the most painful of ways, like Iker knows too well what Fernando’s feeling.

“I just want him to be happy,” Fernando says, finally. He sighs and closes his eyes, drops his head back against the wall again. “And I want to be happy with him.”

There’s silence between them, not tense or uncomfortable, but one that exists to exist. Fernando’s shoulders relax and, drunk as he is, he can’t help but remember Sergio’s smile. His gorgeous, wide, beaming smile. His laugh. The feel of his skin. How much he liked spending time with him. Fernando squeezes his eyes and lifts his hands to his face.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He feels Iker’s arms around him then, not hesitant or weak, but strong, encircling, sure. 

“I know, Fer,” Iker whispers into his hair. “But you have to let him go. Not for him or for yourself, but for the good of your country.”

Fernando opens his eyes blearily and squints at Iker.

“How do you know?”

Iker shakes his head, but it’s less firm now.

“I know, Fernando. Just trust me when I say I know.”

 

He doesn’t wake up with a hangover, surprisingly. He wakes up groggier than usual and a little worse for the wear, but it’s nothing he can’t think around. He feels a resigned sort of determination, not because he wants to, but because he has to. Fernando thinks, it’s what his father would have wanted him to do. Fernando thinks, if he couldn’t make his father proud while he was still alive, he can at least honor his wishes after death. 

He deletes Sergio’s phone number, first. He has Bojan’s servant—Canales, Fernando thinks his name is—take his guitar to an unmarked room. He thinks it’s better this way, that he doesn’t have any reminders. He calls the princess and makes a lunch date with her for later in the week. He almost doesn’t remember to tell the guard about the change in security measures, but he sees Iker in the hallway one day and his memory gives a little start. He tries not to feel like an ass when he tells the guard, “If Sergio comes back, please don’t let him through”. Later, he thinks he sees a familiar face, a familiar body, waiting for him at the gates, like he always used to. He thinks the familiar face sees him too, that he turns toward him. His heart beats somewhere near his ribcage and he tries not to turn red as he turns on his heels and steers Pipita away from where they’re standing. He tries not to think about it that night or feel like he’s betrayed someone, somehow. He’s not sure who he would have betrayed, but he thinks if it’s himself, then it’s better than anyone else he could have hurt. 

It’s better this way, he thinks.

Fernando takes his place alongside Pipita in the Knights again and he thinks, it’s better this way. It becomes a mantra he mutters to himself as he lines his rifle up and shoots round after round into the dead-center of the target.

 

Fernando grows visibly tired. He sits in on nearly every Council meeting with David and, now Bojan too, but they interest him a lot less than the affairs of people themselves. He thinks he should be as rapt as Bojan, as eager to discuss the implications of policies and policing the careful movement of the Knights around borders. It’s doubly important for him, as a member of the regiment, as well as second in-line for the throne now. Raúl delivers reports on a near daily basis and they’re never any less grave. It should matter to him, Fernando thinks, but it doesn’t. Arrows on a whiteboard or strings of Latin words, strung together in a seemingly coherent proclamation from Hodgson interests him as much as attending mass. He spends meetings drumming his fingers on the desk, trying to absorb words while, in reality, doing barely more than outlining the Archbishop’s swooped nose in his mind and wondering how it came into existence.

He attends training sessions with the Knights consistently. It’s one of the only times he sees Pipita and for that he’s more than grateful, but even Pipita is subdued while in formation. Fernando fidgets constantly, as though he’s afraid of what might happen if he stands still for too long. He closes his eyes, sometimes, and thinks he can hear strings of flamenco music. Once, he finds himself absentmindedly dialing in the number to Pepe’s before he catches himself and throws his phone across the room. It breaks neatly in half and Fernando buries his face in his hands, feels about as hopeless as David used to. 

 

“Nando,” Pipita starts, one day. Fernando turns to look at him. He squints a little, because of the sun, and things that this is how things usually begin, when Pipita starts. “Don’t take this personally.”

That’s his first indication. Pipita rarely prefaces anything with _don’t take this personally_ unless there is something to take personally. It’s a bit of an irony and Fernando doubts that he realizes he does it himself, but it gives him time to brace himself. He stops absentmindedly twirling his fork around the spaghetti on his place and looks up. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fernando says dryly and then motions for Pipita to continue. 

“But,” Pipita presses. 

“But.”

“But you look like shit,” is his final declaration. 

Fernando considers this and warily eyes his friend. Pipita’s already been through two plates of spaghetti in the time that Fernando has been picking through half of his first. He’s chewing on a garlic roll now and Fernando thinks even the smell of food makes him nauseous these days. He puts his fork down and rests an elbow on the table instead. 

“Humor me.” 

“I don’t know what’s eating at you,” Pipita says through a mouthful of bread. “And you know, I care but I’m not going to push because we’re not kids anymore. You can tell me whatever the fuck is wrong if that’s what you want to do.” 

“I don’t,” Fernando says pointedly.

“Which is why I wasn’t asking,” Pipita says, a little annoyed. Fernando gives him a vaguely apologetic look and Pipita seems to accept it. “But you’re not very good at hiding that _something’s_ wrong. You’re thinner, quieter, and you look tired, all the fucking time.”

“I have some of the highest marks in training,” Fernando says, with a frown. He’s not particularly offended, more worried that he’s apparently been so obvious. He’s been focusing so much of his energy in deluding himself that he forgets he has to work to delude others as well. 

“I’m not saying it’s affecting your ability to function or anything, just that you look like shit.” Pipita swallows his mouthful and picks up his bottle of water and starts chugging. He drains half of it and then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “And as your oldest friend, I’m kind of fucking worried.” 

Fernando frowns and shifts uncomfortably. He feels a bit guilty, but he’s shaking his head almost immediately.

“You don’t have to worry, it’s not a matter of life-or-death,” Fernando answers, but his tone is flat even to his own ears. He winces.

“See?” Pipita nods wisely. “You can’t even control it. You might not be dying, but you’re not going to have any life left in you at this rate. But.”

Fernando looks up.

“But?”

“But,” Pipita grins. “I can change that if you let me.” 

 

Pipita’s idea of infusing life into the drained prince is to take him out-- _actually_ take him out. Pipita helps Fernando dress down in clothes they bought years ago when they both used to jump over the metaphorical fence into a life that one had given up long ago and that the other had never been offered at all. They go with a group of Knights who are all excited to have a day off. They’ve been training and preparing themselves to be deployed to the field for a month straight, the most rigorous and extensive regime that General González could devise. Their bodies and minds are stronger for it, but even the General had realized that one day off could help boost morale more than he could. Everyone is so busy laughing into one another’s shoulders, already on the way to tipsy even before they approach the first bar, that nobody really notices that the prince has joined them as well. 

Pipita throws an arm around Fernando’s shoulder and drags him along. Fernando doesn’t know that he’s any more relaxed than he usually is, but Pipita has a way of making him forget that, even momentarily. He finds himself laughing more than he has in weeks, not looking around corners to avoid a boy with long hair and familiar tattoos.

He doesn’t even know the name of the bar they slip into, only that it’s not Pepe’s and by that virtue alone, Fernando can allow himself to relax. They order a few beers and then a few shots to loosen up. Every member of their group is a strictly trained Knight, so it takes more than a little alcohol to fully inebriate any of them. Carlos, a short man with a face that Fernando has often thought resembles a Neanderthal more than a modern human, regales the group with a story about his girlfriend and everyone starts snickering into their beers. His story picks up color and choice expletives until no one really believes what he’s saying anymore, but no one moves to stop him either. 

“If only you could shoot as well as you can tell stories,” Fernando says loudly at some point and the entire group snorts with laughter. He gets pats on his back from multiple Knights, including the other Fernando, known as Gago, who Fernando hadn’t thought liked him, previously. 

A little halfway through Pipita and Garay’s impromptu dancing competition, a knight with no hair and an extremely pointed smirk, Victor, buys the entire company another round of drinks. They finish over the course of an hour and stumble out of the bar. Fernando welcomes the fresh air on his flushed, pink cheeks, but he welcomes Pipita’s cry of _To another one!_ even more. 

 

They rinse and repeat through two more bars before Fernando starts to get really fuzzy around the edges. He began feeling the effects two shots of tequila ago, but he has more than enough discipline to control his thoughts and actions when he’s tipsy. It’s only when he starts to get drunk, that he loses any control that he had. 

He thinks, later, that should have been the first warning sign. The second should have been the flickering sign that read _El Léon y la Corona_. 

 

They stumble into the bar, much as they had the previous three, but this one is different, somehow. Fernando feels himself smile immediately, feels the tension straining his shoulders ease away. Pipita notices this and exclaims _Finally!_ before pinching even more color into Fernando’s cheeks. Fernando dodges away from his drunk friend to sit next to Gago. He says _hi_ , lightly, with a sleepy little smile and Gago says hi back. They talk for a little while about absolutely nothing, because that’s how much they’ve had to drink. By the time everyone’s shuffled in, Pipita’s standing up and taking orders again. 

“Uhhhhhhhhh hold on,” he says at the head of the group to a bartender Fernando can’t see. He smiles sleepily and puts his head down on the table. He’s really relaxed here and he’s not sure why, but he thinks maybe it has a lot to do with the alcohol. 

“Okay how about a round of cerveza for everyone and then shots of tequila and keep them com—oh right and three vodka tonics, two pacháran, two cuba libres, and—Fernando, what do you want?”

Fernando raises his head and is a bit confused, but he thinks. He’s had enough hard liquor that he thinks he’s just like to sip on some cheap wine for a bit. 

“Tinto de Verano,” he says unabashedly, although his face still turns hot when the men around him start to laugh. 

“Who drinks that outside of high school parties!” someone laughs loudly to the right of him. Fernando turns to scowl at them, but Gago shakes his head.

“No, that sounds good,” he says instead. “One for me too, El Graso!” 

“Hey!” comes Pipita’s indignation at being called fat, again, as usual, but he loses to the obnoxious crowd of drunk Knights, so he shakes his head and returns his attention to the bartender instead. “Two Tinto de Verano, then. I’m sure they’ll drink them out of boxes if you have those too.”

Fernando doesn’t hear the bartender’s reply. He’s too busy craning his head over Gago’s shoulder to watch Aguero try to complete a headstand when he hears something that twists his heart. It’s low at first, barely audible, but there’s the unmistakable sounds of the thrumming of strings and it’s so absolutely familiar that Fernando has to grip the edge of his seat to keep from making an inappropriate noise. Then it picks up, picks into faster and faster chords and they’re angry and sad together, somehow, or maybe that’s just what Fernando attributes to them. He tries to close his eyes, tries to cover his ears, and in his drunken state, he thinks it will help. It doesn’t. He can still hear the music, can still feel his stomach roil, and he’s lucky that Gago has such a tight grip on his shoulder because otherwise, he thinks he’d be emptying it out on the floor right now. Fernando shakes his head and wrests himself out of Gago’s grip. 

He thinks he hears Pipita ask him what’s the matter and he sees a drink get slammed down in front of him by a bartender he recognizes before he finally swivels his body and sees him. 

 

Fernando doesn’t know what hits him first, the eyes or the bruises. He isn’t aware of taking in a sharp breath or of stumbling out of his seat, but he doesn’t think he’s ever had such a violent and unconscious reaction to something. The eyes are bad enough, large and sad, cold and defiant. He sees a medley of emotions mixed in, each conflicting with another, and Fernando could barely read it in a sober state of mind, let alone whatever he is in now. 

The bruises, the scars are a completely different kind of shock. It hits him like a sudden wave, crashes into his conscious until he think he’s gasping for breath. Sergio looks thin, but he always looks thin. He looks tired and sad, but he always looks tired. He looks heartbroken, too, but what Fernando notices is fading bruises and scars that he can’t quite cover. His arms are covered in long-sleeves, even in this heat, but Fernando can see the discoloration on his neck, the scratches along his jaw and cheek, the black eye that still looks fresh. He looks battered, Fernando thinks, and Fernando can’t remember a single other time when Sergio had.

Fernando doesn’t remember stumbling out of his seat, but he must have, because one moment, Pipita is trying to catch his shoulder and the next he’s frantically pushing past crowds of women curved into one another and the sweaty guys trying to crowd them. His heart beats rapidly in his chest, thudding at an alarming rate and he doesn’t know if it’s a conscious thought or if it’s because he’s drunk, but he thinks that if he doesn’t get to the stage fast enough, Sergio might disappear altogether.

“Sergio!” Fernando calls. A woman gets in his way and he slams past her unapologetically. Her boyfriend gets furious, but Fernando’s already skirted around two tables and several more people. He stumbles just before he gets to the stage and familiar hands have to stop him from crashing into it. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Fernando curses. He can feel pain spread through his toe where he stubs it, but he ignores it immediately and looks up into brown eyes that simultaneously dry his throat and lodge his heart in it. 

“Fuck,” Fernando whispers. “Fuck, Sergio.”

And then, “Sergio, what happened?”

Followed by, “Sergio, I _missed you_.” 

And then Fernando feels a fist collide with the side of his bright red face.

 

He’s lucky that Sergio catches him, again, because he’s certain his face would have made contact with the sharp edges of the stairs leading up to the stage. There’s a commotion immediately behind him as every Knight, conditioned by years of training, snaps to attention. While lack of sobriety proves to be a difficult obstacle in the lives of most civilians, the Knights are trained to respond despite any and all obstacles. Victor can barely see straight, but he and Gago manage to grasp the offender, not that Fernando notices. He’s blinking away tears rapidly and he thinks the sudden movement and impact dislodged something in his stomach because he shakes his head and wrests out of Sergio’s grasp just in time to hurl to the side of the stage. He empties the contents of his stomach within seconds and once he’s done and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he feels Sergio’s hand on his arm. 

“Come on,” Sergio mutters and Fernando finds himself steered away from the stage and the crowd and out the back door of Pepe’s. Fernando tries to turn around once or twice, muttering apologies and saying he should help Pepe clean up, but Sergio shakes his head and keeps his grip firm. “Let’s just get you some fresh air.” 

As soon as Sergio gets the back door open and Fernando stumbles out into the cool night air, he takes a deep, gasping breath. He hadn’t been aware that he was suffocating inside, but the fresh air rushes into his lungs so fast that he nearly chokes on how good it feels. It buffets against his red cheeks and cools them as well, which makes his stomach feel better. He leans against the back wall and slides to the ground as soon as Sergio lets him go.

“Stay here, okay?” Sergio says and then he’s back through the door inside again. Fernando shakes his head, trying to ignore the stinging in his cheeks, but mostly manages to give himself a headache instead. He’s had way too much alcohol, on second thought. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall.

 

Minutes, or possibly hours, later, Fernando hears the door creak open again. He doesn’t open his eyes until he feels Sergio’s foot nudge his own and then he slits one open and then the other.

“Here, water,” Sergio squats in front of him and hands him a large glass. Then he takes an ice pack from the other hand and presses it to Fernando’s cheek. “To help the swelling.” 

“Thanks,” Fernando rasps as he downs the water. It feels good against his raw throat and he appreciates that it washes out the acidic taste in his mouth as well. “Fuck, who hit me?”

“Some guy you pissed off,” Sergio says, shrugging. “Your boys took care of him, though. Don’t think he expected any Knights here. Neither did anyone else, actually, the entire place cleared out.”

Fernando feels a twinge of guilt for Pepe’s business, but it’s quickly replaced with an even more pronounced twinge of pain in his head. He thirstily finishes the rest of the water. When he’s done, he puts the glass aside and then his eyes are fully open and staring at Sergio.

Sergio, for his part, rubs his right shoulder and looks distinctly uncomfortable where he is. He tries to straighten, but Fernando grabs his wrist. 

“Stop, please.”

Sergio looks hesitant, but his features harden almost immediately. 

“I need to go back, you’ll be fine—”

“I’m sorry,” Fernando says, catching Sergio’s eyes. They’re not so clear to see in the dark, but Fernando thinks he sees hesitation flicker across them. “I was a dick, I know.”

Sergio lets out a low, irritated breath, but doesn’t try to move. He doesn’t try to shake off Fernando’s hand either, which the prince takes as a good sign.

“I should have called you,” Fernando apologizes, softly. “I should have come to see you, at Pepe’s, at youur apartment, wherever I could.”

Still, Sergio doesn’t say anything and Fernando grows a little desperate.

“I fucked up, Sese. I know that, can’t you see that I know that? I’m really fucking sorry, don’t be mad—”

“Don’t be mad?” Sergio chuckles lowly, this time. He has a dark look on his face that Fernando doesn’t like. “You didn’t say a single fucking word to me, Fernando. I didn’t know why you disappeared. I thought it was all my fucking fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault—”

Sergio’s eyes are starting to flash now. He wriggles his wrist out of Fernando’s grip.

“I kissed you, Fernando. I fucking told you how I felt and then I kissed you. Do you know how difficult that was for me? Do you know how many fucking walls I had built up that I let down for _you_?” Fernando blanches. “I told you because I fucking cared. And you led me on. You said you were okay with it. You kissed me _back_.” 

“I wasn’t leading you on,” Fernando says, his voice raising a little. He reaches for Sergio’s wrist again, but Sergio pulls back, gets to his feet. Fernando’s head is pounding from the alcohol and heat and throwing up, but he somehow manages to stumble to his as well. “I swear, please, fuck—”

“I checked my phone every day. I tried to call you. I fucking came to the fucking _palace_ and do you know what happened?” Sergio looks pissed and, Fernando thinks, rightfully so. “I think you do because suddenly I didn’t fucking exist, Nando. Not only was I not allowed inside, but I wasn’t fucking told _why_ and I was told I’d be arrested if I came back, what the _fuck_?” 

Fernando winces.

“I never told him to say that—”

“You told the guard I wasn’t to be let in,” Sergio says angrily. He runs a hand through his hair. “After everything, I wasn’t even given a fucking explanation. You didn’t have the balls to tell me what I did weirded you the fuck out and you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Fernando’s face drops at that. He feels his stomach twist unpleasantly, almost painfully, and it becomes harder to breathe. He shakes his head and takes an involuntary step forward to which Sergio responds by taking a voluntary step backward. 

“I didn’t— I never told him to threaten you,” Fernando says, miserably. His throat is dry now. He wishes he hadn’t finished that water so quickly.

“That’s your answer,” Sergio says, laughing lowly. “That you didn’t tell him to threaten me. So it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Fernando says in frustration. He runs a hand through his messy hair and shakes his head. “None of it is okay. I said I was sorry for being a dick and I meant it. I’m really fucking sorry, Sergio.”

Sergio crosses his arms and steels himself. He doesn’t look happy, but Fernando thinks maybe his stance is a little less tense than it had been previously. Then again, Fernando thinks, maybe that’s just wishful thinking. 

“You fucked up,” he says, slowly. “You shut me out when I needed you the fucking most.”

This time, Fernando looks up. He studies the cuts and bruises visible to him and moves forward. This time, Sergio doesn’t stop him. He reaches a hand out and touches his neck, tentatively. 

“What happened, Sese?” Fernando asks softly. He doesn’t want to hear the answer, truthfully, but he knows he needs to.

“Nothing,” Sergio mutters, but Fernando won’t take no for an answer. He presses a finger to Sergio’s neck, a little harder than before, and Sergio’s breath grows shallower. He curses a little before moving back. “Some thug found me, okay? He didn’t seem to like the fact that I was fucking gay.” 

Fernando frowns.

“How did he know that you were gay?”

Sergio avoids his eyes and avoids answering the question too.

“You’re not obvious at all,” Fernando says. His frown deepens when he doesn’t get an answer. “You’d have to have done something in publ—”

And suddenly, it clicks. Fernando blinks rapidly as his heart rate increases, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. His eyes widen a little in horror and the way Sergio tenses, he knows it’s true.

“You’re fucking with me. That day? Because of me?” 

Sergio shrugs it off and takes another step back, but Fernando moves forward. 

“Someone beat the shit out of you because they saw you with _me_?” Fernando’s voice is rising, he’s getting angrier. It’s hitting him slowly, the way his blood is taking its time to boil, the way the ringing in his ears is soft at first and then getting louder and louder. “Are you fucking shitting me?”

“It’s nothing,” Sergio mutters, but Fernando catches him by the collar. He presses a hand to Sergio’s face, lets his thumb graze gently over his black eye.

“ _Fuck_ , Sergio. You were hurt because of me,” Fernando swallows. Sergio winces again, this time when Fernando’s thumb presses a little too hard on his eye. “And then I hurt you some more I—fuck, I didn’t know.”

“Would it have made a difference?” Sergio asks, honestly. Fernando can’t read his expression, not really, but he thinks it is honest and open more than anything. Sergio really wants to know.

“Yes,” Fernando breathes and he’d like to think this is the answer. But then he remembers Iker and closes his eyes. “No. I don’t know.”

Sergio laughs slightly and turns his head.

“Someone found out, didn’t they? Someone who reminded you why we— _you_ couldn’t.” 

Fernando shifts uncomfortably because it’s true. It sounds cold when Sergio says it, but, Fernando thinks, it was, so maybe it should.

“It’s complicated,” Fernando says, finally. Sergio laughs and shifts, but Fernando stops him with a hand to his chest. “I was just reminded that I have a duty to my country. Anything I could want means nothing in the bigger picture.”

“You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for the country,” Sergio snaps, to which Fernando replies, “But if I don’t, who will?”

Sergio has no response to this. They look at each other and it’s clear that neither knows what to say. They’re at an impasse, not of their own making, but of someone else’s. Fernando thinks Sergio _has_ to know he would choose him if he could, but he’s not a mindreader, so why would he? 

“I’ve been putting off making a decision,” Fernando says, finally. Sergio licks his lips and frowns. 

“What decision?” 

“What I want to do, who I want to be,” Fernando admits. He sighs and tilts his head up toward the dark sky. Suddenly, he’s no longer so drunk. “And there’s a girl.” 

Sergio stiffens. “A girl?” 

“A princess,” Fernando says slowly. “Olalla Domínguez.”

“Are you betrothed?” Sergio asks, eyes narrowed to a slit. Fernando realizes that this, this is what he’s been avoiding longer than anything else. He realizes he’s barely even thought of Olalla, let alone mentioned her since he met Sergio. Fernando lets out a rough sigh and rubs his face.

“Not as such.”

“Then as what?”

“We’ve known each other since we were children. It was kind of assumed that one day, we would.” 

“I see,” Sergio says, slowly. And then, “Do you want to?”

Fernando laughs a little and shakes his head warily.

“I thought I did. Now I don’t know what I want.”

Sergio says nothing for a long minute, then he shrugs, simply.

“I’m not a prince, Nando. I’m not anywhere close to being royal-blooded. Your problems? They involve the country, its future, marrying the right princess, and producing heirs so that your family can continue ruling the country.” His voice softens at this point and he starts playing with the bottom of his shirt. “My problems are nowhere close to that. Eating, surviving, finding some sliver of happiness before I die. You have an entire country to rule, something to fight for.”

Sergio smiles weakly and shrugs again.

“I play flamenco for a few drinks or some money whenever I can. That’s it. I can’t be your prince charming.”

Fernando simply shakes his head. He curls his hand into Sergio’s collar and pulls him close.

“Jesus, Sergio. Who the fuck asked you to be?”

 

It’s not a promise—anything but. It’s an understanding, of the saddest kind, he thinks. Their lips meet as hungrily as they had the first time, but with less urgency, at first. It’s a slow kind of kiss, sensuous in how thorough it is. Sergio pushes Fernando back, slowly, until his back hits the wall. He fists his hands into Sergio’s hair and Sergio presses a hand between their chests. Their tongues slide past each other and Fernando thinks he can’t remember the last time his heart was beating so rapidly, the last time he felt so overwhelmed with feeling and need. 

They hit a point where they have to break to breathe. Sergio’s eyes are almost completely clouded over, which perfectly reflects Fernando’s own. They breathe in synchronization and Sergio touches a hand to Fernando’s neck. Fernando touches a hand to Sergio’s shoulder and it’s like an admission, that they’re at a block and fuck, they want each other, and fuck they need each other, but there’s no way past it. 

“Fuck,” Fernando says, breathing hard. Sergio laughs in agreement. “ _Fuck_. Whatever, I fucking _want_ you.”

And when Fernando slams his lips against Sergio’s this time, they stumble back and forth, biting and sucking at one another’s already-swollen lips, hands sliding up and under shirt and sweatshirt. They find themselves out of breath within seconds and they just don’t fucking care because they kiss like it might be the last fucking time in their life and because Fernando Torres is a prince and Sergio Ramos is not, it very well might be.

 

Sergio rests his forehead onto the top of Fernando's chest and groans, his own chest heaving from effort. He carefully removes his hand from Fernando's now unzipped jeans, is careful to rest it on his chest because anywhere near that region is too dangerous for either of them right now.

“Nando, you're killing me,” he rasps, his throat rough and tight and he tries not to make it too obvious how much he wants this right now, how much he's willing to beg Fernando to let him (them) have it, even here, even against a wall outside of a bar.

“I know,” Fernando wheezes as well and he keeps his tight grip on Sergio's hips. He buries his face into the crook between Sergio's neck and shoulder and tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, I know, I'm sorry. I just—“

“You can't, I fucking know,” Sergio exhales in frustration. He wants to pull away, but can't bring himself to break the contact, can’t bring himself to slide his hand out from under Fernando’s shirt where his skin is flushed and sweaty already. He flowers Fernando's throat with hot, lusty kisses instead. “Fuck, you drive me crazy. You're going to end up being the death of me.”

Fernando doesn't answer particularly well. At the moment, Sergio nips at his pulse point and that elicits a throaty moan that goes straight down for both of them.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Sergio pants and breaks away, completely detaches from Fernando and scuttles toward the opposite wall so that he can't tempt the situation any more than he already has.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Fernando manages to pant. He tries not to think about how hard either of them are, even though it’s more than difficult either way. “I just wanted, I just needed to—”

“Stop apologizing,” Sergio says. His voice is scratchy and Fernando doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life. “I wanted it too. I just, fuck, halfway through.”

“I know, I know,” Fernando repeats feverishly as though only then can either of them be distracted. 

Sergio looks up and his eyes are still clouded over, still glassy with need.

“What if we just didn’t fuck—”

Fernando licks his lips and thinks this is a terrible idea.

“This is a great idea,” he says, instead. It takes less than a second for their bodies to collide again. His hand is already fisted in Sergio’s hair and Sergio’s already pushing him back against the wall, fumbling for his zipper. 

“Can’t have the prince be uncomfortable,” Sergio says lowly and Fernando kisses up his neck desperately. He’s using lips, tongue, teeth, everything he can to mark his way up Sergio’s skin. “That would be— _fuck_ —treachery.”

“Fuck, we’ve had this conversation before, stop talking and just do it,” Fernando hisses as he bites down particularly hard on Sergio’s earlobe. Sergio moans and Fernando covers his mouth with his hand. Sergio bites on the inside Fernando’s palm, hard, but it feels good. 

Fernando’s head bounces back against the wall and Sergio’s finally managed to unzip his jeans and wrap his hand around Fernando.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Fernando curses again, but it’s only momentary, and then he’s rendered speechless altogether.

* * *

It doesn’t mean anything, Fernando thinks. He lies in bed with an ice pack pressed against his now-swollen cheek and closes his eyes tiredly. He can already feel a hangover developing, even though every time he’s tried to fall asleep, his eyes have immediately sprung open. He has too many things running through his mind, too many uncontrolled thoughts and images and frustration providing a kind of adrenaline that has his body wired long past its tipping point. He turns in his bed and tries to bury his face into a down-pillow, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, because for the first time in his life, Fernando wishes there was someone there beside him.

* * *

Pipita had come outside to find him, eventually. He had opened the door slowly, carefully, as though he had known what he might find, but by then Sergio and Fernando had long since parted. Long since tucked themselves back in and straightened rumpled clothes and adjusted mussed hair. They had thanked the cool, night air for tempering their flushed cheeks and drying their damp skin. 

“Is it cliché to say that I need you?” Fernando had whispered against Sergio’s lips and Sergio had chuckled lowly, had nodded his head and buried his face into Fernando’s shoulder. 

“Cliché as fuck.”

“Then I don’t know what to do about it,” Fernando had sighed. The cool air and hot kissing (and even hotter release) had more than sobered him up, but their situation had made him feel dizzy again. He had needed to rest his hands on Sergio’s hips, had needed to hold him close, just for the moment. 

“Would you have known either way?” Sergio had asked and Fernando had shaken his head. 

“This is more complicated than I meant for it to be,” Fernando had replied, which was his way of sighing, _I hadn’t really meant to fall for you in any capacity_. 

Sergio hadn’t had a real answer for that. He had pressed a kiss to Fernando’s neck and finally pulled back.

“You’re the prince, Fernando,” he had said. Fernando remembers that Sergio had looked sadder than he thinks he’d ever seen him before. “Everything is more complicated than you mean for it to be.”

That wasn’t an acceptable answer to Fernando, but it wasn’t as though he had a better alternative. 

“I’ll miss you,” Sergio had said and kissed Fernando once more on the lips. He had held their hands between their chests and kissed Fernando on either cheek, on his nose, on the corners of his mouth, on his eyelids, and back on his mouth. “Give the princess my regards.”

Sergio had slipped back inside far before Pipita had come out to find the prince. 

What the Knight had found wasn’t the prince he had come looking for but a childhood friend who, sitting down on the ground, had looked more heartbroken and lost than he had ever seen him look before. Pipita had sat down on the ground next to him, put an arm around his back, and pressed kisses to his temple. They had sat there like that until the bar closed and he had to tell Fernando that it was time to come home.


	15. Fernando; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VI. Fernando; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 4,475  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (referenced); Jesús Navas, Roy Hodgson; Cameos by Sergio Canales, Cristiano Ronaldo, Marcelo, Kaká  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**VI. Fernando**   
_don’t waste your time_   


He can’t sleep, after all. Fernando tries, but every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Sergio and all he can hear is _I’ll miss you_ reverberating through his head. He thinks he’s developing a migraine from it, thinks that three simple words should not be allowed to make his chest feel like it’s splitting in half.

He sighs and sits up eventually, rubs his hands across his face and pulls on a robe. Fernando’s not sure where he’s going, just that he needs to leave his large, empty room with its large, empty bed, big enough for two, but only home for one. He finds slippers he never wears tucked into the same corner the servant always puts it and opens the door and slips out.

The halls of the palace are bustling with activity at all times of the day and night. During the day the atmosphere is more calculated, more official, but at night, it’s filled with the low energy of all of the work that hasn’t gotten done during the day and the people who now must finish them. Fernando draws his robes closer around his shoulders and moves as inconspicuously as possible. He thinks he can breathe easier like this, watching without being watched. He’s been watched carefully, almost suffocatingly, since he was old enough to walk and now that he can walk, all he feels is the distinct urge to run and run fast. He doesn’t have much in the way of an invisibility cloak, but it’s late enough that no one expects the prince to be awake, which functions just as well. 

He supposes he had never thought about how many people live in the palace, just how many people it takes to complete the day-to-day tasks of cleaning and making it livable for just, now, him and his two brothers. It doesn’t seem fair. He wonders how many of them hate them, how many servants look at him, look at Bojan, look at David and ask themselves why being born into privilege necessarily means having it absolutely. Fernando doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve special treatment. He’s come to expect it, but he certainly hasn’t earned it. He thinks that if, one night, he found himself with a knife in his back, he wouldn’t particularly blame it either.

“I—would you stop?” an annoyed voice comes from somewhere ahead of him. Fernando recognizes the annoyed tone, sees the spiked hair before he even recognizes the outline of David’s new Public Liaison. 

“I don’t know why you’re not trying it,” comes a giggling voice and Fernando vaguely recognizes the person Cristiano is with as someone from their kitchens. Fernando doesn’t remember his name, exactly, but the braces and afro are a bit difficult to forget. 

“ _Maybe because I outgrew the first grade_ ,” comes Cristiano’s hissing and he looks around quickly to make sure no one is watching. Fernando flattens himself against the wall, hides in the shadows so that neither of them can see him, but he can watch them. 

“You’re too paranoid,” the other man says and Fernando can finally see them. They’re both at the bottom of a long staircase with a rather wide banister, so seconds before the kitchen aid runs up the stairs, Fernando knows exactly what he’s going to do.

“Marcelo, I don’t have time for this,” Cristiano says again, although his mouth is twitching. Fernando doesn’t blame him. Marcelo hasn’t stopped smiling since the prince set his eyes on him. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Marcelo says succinctly before straddling the top of the banister and adjusting himself. “If you’re going to be boring about it, at least make sure I don’t die!” 

“Might be better for me if I didn’t,” Cristiano mutters just before Marcelo pushes his legs off the ground and his entire body flies forward, up and down the curve of the banister, gathering speed until, near the bottom he puts both hands down and pushes himself off with all of his strength. He flies high over the end and lands in a pile right where Cristiano would have been had he not had the foresight to move just in time.

“ _Hey_!” Marcelo cries in a heap of pain and two seconds of a frown before he joins the other man in laughing. He manages to untangle his limbs and Cristiano shakes his head while reaching a hand forward. Marcelo takes it and is pulled to his feet. He dusts himself off and winces in pain, reaches behind him to pat his butt. “Ow, _fuck_ , my ass is going to hurt for the next week, at least.”

“Told you not to,” is Cristiano’s smug answer to which Marcelo’s is, “ _You were supposed to catch me_!” 

“I don’t have to catch anyone,” Cristiano says. 

“You would have caught me if I was Kaká,” Marcelo mutters, a bit petulantly. 

“Kaká would never try to kill me flying off banisters,” Cristiano says, grinning. Fernando thinks his face lights up a bit at the mention of the other man. He throws an arm around Marcelo’s shoulder. “But yes, probably I would have.”

“Fucking favorites,” Marcelo scowls and that only makes Cristiano laugh as the two of them wander away. 

Fernando emerges from his corner, a little bemused. He barely knows Cristiano outside of closed office doors, but the other man, for his bad fashion taste and slight hint of constant smugness, possibly at existing, had never made much of an impression on him. He had been instated to his position about a month before their parents had died and he’d never gotten a chance to fully be introduced to palace life before he had been thrown headfirst into his duties. Fernando had never gotten to know him, although, apparently, Cristiano had worked himself quite neatly around the palace staff already. 

Fernando’s lived at the palace his entire life and he thinks there are only a handful of people he even recognizes apart from Iker and Zizou. 

“Always running, never stopping to look,” a quiet voice whispers behind him. 

Fernando nearly jumps out of his skin. 

He whirls around, heart pounding somewhere near his ear—a strange sensation altogether—and he’s more than a little wild-eyed at the same young servant boy he sees _everywhere_.

“Don’t worry,” Canales says with a twinkle in his eyes. He lifts his index finger to his lips and makes a hushing motion. “Your secret’s safe with me, Prince Fernando!” 

Then he winks and he’s around the corner in the bat of an eye. 

Fernando blinks rapidly, trying to process exactly what happened and why. He’s largely unsuccessful so he glares at the place where Canales used to be and quickly shuffles down the hallway before anyone else can try to send him into cardiac arrest tonight. 

 

He decides what he needs is fresh air. What he finds is Navas, staring up at the sky. Fernando hesitates, not wanting to bother the younger man, but he’s curious about what he’s thinking or, maybe, even what he sees. It’s late enough that he’s surprised Navas is even awake, but he doesn’t seem to have fallen asleep sprawled on the grass as he is. His large, glassy blue eyes are staring at the heavens as though he can actually see them.

Fernando crosses from the path to the grass, ignoring the stains he’s undoubtedly getting on his slippers. He sits down next to the other man quietly, doesn’t make a sound except to breathe. 

Navas doesn’t notice him for the longest time. Fernando wonders if this is like Legolas in Lord of the Rings, wonders if part of being so connected with God is finding rest whenever and wherever he’s seen. He wonders if he can be seen with eyes wide open, if Navas can sleep without ever closing his eyes. He reaches out carefully and puts his hand on Navas’s arm, which makes the other man jerk. 

Blue eyes blink rapidly out of their reverie before they turn toward Fernando and the panic registers only a second later. Navas scrambles to a sitting position and is almost up to his feet, he’s that quick, before Fernando manages to put a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Relax,” he says quietly, firmly. “I just wanted to sit by you.”

“Y-your highness, what are you doing out here—” Navas stutters out before realizing what he’s said and, possibly, how impertinent it might be misconstrued. His eyes widen, which Fernando was not aware was possible, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh! That’s not what I meant, sorry, I meant I’m sorry, I did not mean to disturb you—”

Fernando blinks at the younger man’s franticness and starts laughing. Navas’s mouth opens in horror. 

“How were _you_ disturbing _me_?” Fernando asks. 

“I was lying in your path—”

“The path is feet away, you were nowhere near it.”

“Then I was not doing my duties, I apologi—”

“I’m not the Archbishop,” Fernando laughs, slightly louder this time. It’s affectionate, however, and he’s shaking his head as he finally lets go of Navas’s shoulder. “Relax, Navas, I just wanted to sit by you.”

Navas still looks unsure—wildly unsure—but he unclasps his hand from his mouth eventually and lets his shoulder relax the tiniest amount. He doesn’t lie back down again.

“What were you doing out here?” Fernando asks once he’s sure that Navas isn’t in danger of bolting or passing out due to the sheer proximity of someone from the royal family. 

“I think it’s relaxing,” Navas answers quietly. His tone is nothing short of respectful. “Sometimes I can’t sleep at night.” 

“Insomnia?” Fernando asks, curiously. Navas laughs slightly and shakes his head.

“It’s embarrassing, actually,” he says. Fernando raises an eyebrow as a sign to continue on and he thinks he sees Navas color a little in the dark. “You asked once how Sergio and I knew each other, your highness.”

Fernando feels a sudden pang in his chest, a sharp little pain in his stomach where he didn’t expect one. It’s just Sergio’s name, but he feels it. He swallows a little and nods on. 

“He’s my brother,” Navas says.

Fernando’s eyes widen immediately. 

“He isn’t— He never told me—”

“Well not like that,” Navas laughs. He scratches his nose and looks down at the legs spread in front of him. When he looks up at Fernando it’s a little shy, but mostly fond remembrance. “Not blood brothers, exactly. He found me when I was little and his parents took me in. He already had a brother, but he told me I was his new one.”

It’s not that his heart is breaking, Fernando thinks. It’s that his chest is filling with a warmth he’s tried hard to suppress. Even now he can imagine a tiny version of Sergio, long hair and tan skin, finding a little boy at the park or on the streets, dragging him home, telling rather than asking his parents, and pulling him up the stairs to his room so that they could play together. He thinks he can imagine Sergio like that, nothing short of completely devoted to this little boy he’s known for possibly five minutes, taking him into his heart as easily as Fernando took him into his. He thinks it’s possibly the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever heard. 

He thinks he might suffocate on these feelings. 

“What about him?” he manages to ask, finally, when he’s able to string together more than two words. Granted three is hardly anything to celebrate over, but under the circumstances. 

“He found me when we were both really little,” Navas says. He flushes a little and grows progressively redder as he continues his story. “At first I couldn’t sleep at night because I would have nightmares. They were always about my parents, always about them leaving me. So he told me to crawl into bed with him. And I did. And then I just…never stopped.” 

“Never?” Fernando asks. Navas is a spectacular shade of red, but he shakes his head slightly.

“Well maybe not never. Eventually, though. Until he left. He made me feel safe and calm. I guess I never really got over it.” Navas wrinkles his face in embarrassment and Fernando can’t help it, he reaches out to touch a cheek. It’s burning red. 

“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says with a soft smile. “I think it’s sweet.” 

“He’s done more for me than anyone else in this world,” Navas says. He’s looking into Fernando’s eyes directly now, as though he has something to say that he can only bare to communicate through looks and nothing else. Maybe it’s something like _he’s special, Prince Fernando_ or _he can make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters_ or even _please, please don’t hurt him_. 

Fernando shifts uncomfortably and wonders if he’s not projecting his own thoughts on the young clergyman. Then he wonders if it matters. 

“He’ll take care of everyone else, but he won’t let you return the favor,” Navas observes, carefully. That, at least, makes Fernando smile. 

“I’ve noticed,” he says with a shake of his head. He leans back on his hands and looks up into the sky. He squints, as though he’ll be able to see the stars that way, but he can’t see much of anything, really. He turns his head to Navas again. “Your parents left you?”

Navas’s face flickers but he sighs and shrugs his shoulders slightly in response, as though it doesn’t matter at all. 

“I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Doesn’t it—” Fernando hesitates, but Navas looks at him honestly. There’s something about him that makes even uncomfortable questions less so. “Doesn’t it bother you? Don’t you ever resent them?”

It takes Navas more than a few seconds to answer him. He closes his eyes and seems to count in his head. Fernando can see a firefly settling on top of his hair and he resists the urge to pick it off.

“I used to,” Navas says, finally, opening his eyes. “When I was younger and didn’t know better. I think I was really angry and I never knew it. But God works in mysterious ways, Prince Fernando. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. Sometimes the thing that breaks our heart the most is the thing that God designed to be the best. We just don’t know it because, well, we’re merely human.”

When Navas smiles at him like that, like the entire weight of the world has left his shoulders because a higher power took it from him, Fernando finds himself a little jealous. 

“And how did taking your parents from you help you?” Fernando whispers. 

“He took my parents, Prince Fernando,” Navas smiles. “But he gave me Sergio.”

 

They sit there comfortably for long enough and talk quietly enough that they don’t hear the footsteps as they approach. The sounds of shoes on the pavement scrape lightly against the concrete and once they find grass they’re even more muted. If there’s a swish of the end of a robe hitting the grass, they don’t hear that either. It isn’t until the low voice comes that either Fernando or Jesús are aware that they aren’t alone anymore.

“Your highness, it is late.”

Fernando jumps immediately and Jesús freezes in place before scrambling up to his feet. He straightens faster than Fernando thinks is humanly possible and Fernando is left to scramble up by himself in a rather undignified manner. Hodgson’s unpleasant face sneers slightly at the both of them, tucked into his short stature as it is.

“Archbishop,” Fernando says, managing to make his voice sound smooth. He has no idea why he feels like he’s been caught, because his parents are dead and he’s an adult, any boundaries he had once are long gone. Next to him, Jesús is completely still. 

“Jesús, you should know better than to bother Prince Fernando,” the Archbishop says. He means it kindly, theoretically, but Fernando can see the hidden threat there. Hogdson has always been a bully. Fernando’s skin crawls just at his voice.

“He was hardly bothering me,” Fernando says quickly, before Jesús can apologize. “I came to him, actually. I couldn’t sleep and Jesús was soothing my nerves.”

“What could you possibly have nerves about, dear prince?” the Archbishop asks.

“Nothing a God-fearing man like yourself has to worry about,” Fernando replies coolly, with a hint of an unfriendly smile. 

The smile Hodgson offers at return is bitter; it would be green around the edges if it had a color, Fernando thinks, like particularly mottled skin or rotting eggs. 

“I see,” he says impassively. He turns slowly to Jesús and gives him the same smile he did earlier. Fernando doesn’t like it. It actually makes him bristle. “While I surely do not doubt the kind prince’s words, perhaps you would do better to clean the nave if you cannot sleep. Or pray. You can never have too much prayer, my son.”

“Of course, Archbishop,” Jesús mutters and bows his head in respect. He doesn’t look back at Fernando as he hurries away.

Fernando watches after him before turning to the Archbishop in pure annoyance. What he sees is something that catches him off-guard completely. The look in Hodgson’s eyes borders on sympathetic and that’s when Fernando knows nothing good can come of this.

“Do you have a minute or two, young prince?” the Archbishop asks. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

 

There’s a warning signal that goes off in Fernando’s head. There are multiple, actually, large, flashing lights and shrieking buzzing noises that make him blink away a pressure headache. He nods at the Archbishop and follows silently after him anyway. 

The path from the palace entrance to the cathedral slopes down with the grounds slightly before curving up over a slight bump and then evening out to the front doors. The doors are usually closed in a way that the Archbishop prefers, but at night, he goes so far as to lock them. Fernando has always thought that this was more than counterproductive, but he supposes no one in the royal family really uses the cathedral during the middle of the night anyway. Once upon a time he would have thought no harm done, but now he’s suspicious. He stares at the grey hair peeking out under the Archbishop’s black mitre and wonders what else he might be hiding, not only inside the church, but inside his head. 

The Archbishop approaches the entrance and raps on the front rapidly, three times. Fernando raises an eyebrow and is about to ask why he doesn’t have a key or the pass when he hears rustling inside and the door scrapes open.

“How do you do, Archbishop?” a soothing voice asks. The open path widens and a tall man with an easy smile and dark, floppy hair stands at the entrance.

“Ah Ricardo, my son,” Hodgson says. “You are still awake.”

“I could not sleep, so I thought I would pray,” Ricardo says with a light smile. 

“You could teach your compatriot something of that,” the Archbishop mutters. 

Ricardo raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, simply steps aside to let the Archbishop in. When he sees Fernando, however, his eyes widen in surprise.

“Your highness, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Just visiting,” Fernando says, forcing a dry smile on his face. He feels out-of-place and completely uncomfortable in robes and slippers, standing at God’s helm that Hodgson has claimed to be his own. 

“We are going to go up to my office, Ricardo. If you see Jesús, please tell him to replace the supplies behind the alter,” Hogdson instructs. 

“Yes, of course,” Ricardo says. He casts a quizzical look at both Hodgson and Fernando, which Fernando finds strange in and of itself, but then he’s following the Archbishop up a flight of stairs and the mystery of Ricardo disappears from his mind.

Hodgson’s office is more or less sparse. It’s large in a cavernous sort of way and there’s a bookshelf lined with different versions of the Bible, religious texts, and books on political theorem that seem just a little out of place. There’s a rosary lying on a large desk in the middle of the room and the stained glass framing the room just beyond does little in the way of creating an atmosphere that comes even close to approaching comfort. If the Archbishop’s aim is to make his audience feel as uncomfortable as possible, he does a remarkably good job of it. 

“Take a seat, my prince,” the Archbishop gestures to the chair across from his desk. 

Fernando is wary but sits anyway. The seat is plush, which at least partially makes up for how cold and unfriendly the room seems to be. 

“Are you comfortable?” Hodgson asks with a faint smile as he sits down. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Fernando tries to keep his eyes from narrowing but is mostly unsuccessful, overall. 

“Just tell me what it is you wanted to discuss,” he says. And then adds, “Archbishop.”

Fernando watches as Hodgson adjusts the papers on his desk. He seems to consider a particular document before carefully shifting his books until it’s covered. Fernando frowns.

“Time is not a luxury, my prince,” the Archbishop begins, slowly. “I assume this is something you have since learned.” 

Fernando raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. 

“Your parents died far too soon and it was expected by none, least of all us humans. Everything is as in God’s plan, but we mortals cannot see the grand picture.” The Archbishop tents his fingers, seems to look over them at Fernando or just past his shoulders. “David was not ready for his task, but God thought differently. It isn’t a matter of being ready, you see.”

“What am I preparing for, your holiness?” Fernando asks. He’s immediately irritated, either by Hodgson’s sheer presence or the cryptic quality of his words. They make Fernando feel unsettled, but mostly wary. 

“Have you spoken with His Highness, Fernando?” the Archbishop asks. When Fernando shakes his head, he makes a little sound like _ah_ , as though he isn’t surprised at all. “So he hasn’t told you.”

“Told me what.” 

The Archbishop seems to take this question as a sign that he should stand, possibly to pace and pontificate whatever point he has hidden and yet to make. Fernando follows him closely, eyes narrowed.

“Power is a funny concept. It is what we make of it. It has authority only because we give it any. The shape power takes is the shape we give it.” The Archbishop stops near the stained glass window and looks out over the grounds. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” 

“I can’t say that I do, Archbishop.” 

“I am but a man of God, Fernando,” Hodgson says. “But I have studied the law and what I have learned, foremost, is that when it isn’t written by God himself, there is a reason for it and that reason is that we must follow it. Without the law there is no consistency in rule and if the King himself does not follow the law, then why should anyone else?” 

“What law is it that you would like David to follow?” Fernando asks. He doesn’t do a very good job of keeping the suspicion out of his voice, although if Hodgson notices, he doesn’t comment.

“The King must have a Queen,” the Archbishop says, instead. He turns slowly back to Fernando, eyes glinting. “The throne in Andalucía is not a singular one, my prince. Just as in faith, it is a balance in power. It must be the same to rule a country.” 

“And who do you expect David to marry?” Fernando says, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. 

“That is not my concern, Prince Fernando,” Hodgson says. He leans back against the window. 

“So what do you expect him to do if he can’t find someone?” Fernando presses. He has a thick feeling in his chest, like he’s expecting an answer he doesn’t want. 

“The King cannot rule without a Queen, prince.” 

Fernando hears a ringing in his ears. He pushes himself up from the chair he’s been sitting in. 

“It’s David’s country to rule, Archbishop.” 

“If David cannot find someone, your highness, he will not be able to keep the throne.”

“That’s _bullshit_ —”

“That is the law.”

Fernando knows what Hodgson is asking and it pisses him off. He feels the anger curl in his chest like a scorpion’s tail spiraled into itself, barbs piercing into its own skin, he feels it hot on his skin and pounding somewhere near the top of his spine. 

“I know what you want me to do.” 

“I don’t want you to do anything, my son, I was merely saying—”

“There is no reason you could have to discuss David’s personal business with me unless it meant something for _me_ , Archbishop.” 

“Your country’s future does not affect you?”

“Please, Archbishop. Don’t insult me.” Fernando breathes out, low and frustrated. He fists his fingers into the cloth of his robe and glares across the room at Hodgson. “What is it that you wanted to tell me? Spit it out.” 

Hogdson watches Fernando carefully for one moment, then another, and then a last one. He unfolds his shoulders and walks toward the desk. When he sits down, it’s with a different air of purpose.

“Very well, then. You know exactly what it is that I am telling you, Prince Fernando,” the Archbishop says. There’s a hint of a smile in his face, masked in the darkness of his room, but clear because he doesn’t pretend to hide it. “King David must find himself a Queen or, by law, he forfeits the throne.”

“How long does he have?” 

“Thirty days.” 

“And if he doesn’t by then?”

Hodgson fixes Fernando with a pointed look.

“Then the throne falls to the second in line,” the Archbishop says. “And that just so happens to be you.”

Fernando feels a sharp pressure at his temple. He’s going to throw up. He stands up instead. 

“You don’t think David will find someone,” he says. “So you want me to.”

The Archbishop shakes his head. 

“You have already found someone, Prince Fernando,” Archbishop Hodgson says. “That is what you already know. If not David, then you.”

“You want me to marry the princess,” Fernando breathes out. He’s nauseous, needs to sit down.

The Archbishop, for his part, cocks his head.

“If not the princess, then who?”

For this, Fernando has no answer. Because he’s Prince Fernando Torres Beckham and to the church and to his kingdom, Sergio Ramos cannot exist. 

And so he does not.


	16. Fernando; Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VI. Fernando; **Part III**_  
>  **Word Count:** 5,385  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Fernando Torres/Olalla Dominguez, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (hints), David Beckham/Iker Casillas (hints)  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16 for language  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**VI. Fernando**   
_don’t waste your time_   


He finds himself outside of David’s door with no recollection of how he got there. Fernando’s aware of just how ludicrous he looks at this hour of the night, bleached hair sticking to the sides of his face, eyes wide with a mixture of uncertain anger and disbelief, robe haphazardly cast about thin shoulders. He raps on the door without concern once, twice, thrice. He feels rather than sees servants pass hurriedly by behind him, probably looking concerned that anyone is bothering the king at all, let alone so late.

Fernando shifts from one leg to another, impatiently, and has just raised a knuckle to rap again, louder this time, when the door opens. He opens his mouth immediately to yell at David and then closes it, blinking in surprise. 

“Fer, what are you doing up so late?” Iker says with a worried expression on his face. He looks tired, face drawn and pale, as though he hasn’t slept in days. He’s wearing clothes Fernando saw him wear at least two days ago. 

“Iker? What are you doing in David’s room?” 

Iker lets out a deep sigh and covers his face with his hands. Fernando doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look this tired.

“Now’s not a good time,” Iker says. “He’s sleeping.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Fernando asks, confused. He’s never given an answer because immediately he hears a voice call from inside the room.

“Iker, who is it?” 

Fernando’s expression clouds over and he looks from Iker to where the voice came from and back to Iker. His confusion is just about to clear up when—

“It’s not what you think, Fer,” Iker mutters, shaking his head. 

“Iker, seriously, worst time to leave the discussion, buddy,” David’s voice comes and he plods, seemingly from deep inside his room, to the doorway. He’s in luxurious, plush robes and his blond hair is sticking up in every which direction. He blinks as Fernando comes into his line of vision. “Fer? What are you doing up so late?”

“What are _you_?” Fernando asks first. And then, “And what’s Iker doing in your room?”

David looks nervously from his brother to his Chief Advisor before offering Fernando a nervous smile. 

“We had some matters of business to attend to.”

“At three in the morning?” Fernando raises an eyebrow.

“I couldn’t sleep and it couldn’t wait?” David offers, but, as usual, his voice is uncertain at best. 

In front of him, Iker heaves a belabored sigh.

“Come in, Fernando,” he says. “I have a feeling you’re not going to leave anyway.”

 

Fernando sits awkwardly on a chair as David takes a seat at the edge of his bed. Iker hovers near the desk that’s been carefully placed by the enormous windows with curtains drawn closed. There’s barely any light in the room at all save a dim flickering on an ancient wall sconce right above David’s royal bed. 

“What are you still doing up, Fer?” David repeats as soon as they’re all settled. He pushes himself further back onto the bed, sticks a pillow under his ass and starts chewing on a loose cuticle. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Fernando shrugs. “Shit on my mind, you know.”

David nods as though he knows. He doesn’t, Fernando thinks. He knows absolutely nothing at all. His eyes flicker to Iker and how tired he looks, how utterly slow and exhausted, as though everything has mounted to this and he’s not sure how they’ve gotten here. There’s something slowly clicking in the back of Fernando’s mind and it’s with Iker and his loyalty, how sad he looks and David on the bed. The picture hasn’t fully formed yet, but Fernando is beginning to see bits and pieces. 

“You two were talking late,” he says carefully after a moment. 

“Like I said, we had some business,” David says.

“What business?” 

“Kingly business.”

“What kind of kingly business?” Fernando presses. He tries not to show how annoyed he is, how close he is to bristling that this entire fucking mess affects him and no one’s taken a moment to fucking consider it. 

Iker gives Fernando a pointed look and shakes his head at David, but David doesn’t see.

“It’s none of your business, Fernando,” he says and it’s exactly the wrong thing to say.

“It’s none of my business,” Fernando slowly repeats. He flexes his wrist, moves it in a circular motion and listens to it pop in the quiet. “What would make it my business, David? Do you think it would make it my business if my king found a queen? What if my country had two leaders instead of one? Would it be my business if my brother got married? _If he was forced to find a wife or else forfeit the throne?_ ” 

David’s mouth hangs open and, honestly, Iker’s does too. Iker recovers and moves to stand, but Fernando stands first. His fists are clenched and he’s shaking.

“Do you think it would be my fucking business if you, my brother and king, lost the throne and it was given to _me_?” Fernando’s voice is rising, his face coloring into a brilliant shade of red, his freckles sticking out sorely in their midst. He’s stepping toward the bed and David’s scooting back on it. 

“Do you think it would be my _fucking business_ if, on that occasion, I was given thirty fucking days to somehow convince myself I want to spend the rest of my life with Olalla? That I could love her and rule an entire country with her?” Iker’s moved by now, has somehow managed to reach Fernando before he’s reached David. Fernando’s shaking and Iker restrains him as Fernando struggles to break free, his voice nearly at a shout now. “When does it become _my business_ , David? Fucking tell me that. Tell me the fuck _when_.”

“I should have told you—” David begins, automatically.

“No fucking _shit_ you should have told me—” Fernando shouts and Iker has to wrestle him back to keep him from leaping on the bed. 

“I was _going_ to Fernando, you needed to give me _time_ \--”

“Time? What _time_? We don’t fucking have time, David. You should have told me the second you fucking knew—”

“I didn’t have to tell you _anything_.” Suddenly it’s David who’s angry, whose face is turning different shades of fury. Suddenly it’s David who’s clenching his fist and not trying to keep his voice from rising. “I have enough fucking shit to deal with Fernando, I don’t have to report to my _little brother_ for everything—”

“That’s fucking _bullshit_ and you know it, David. You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re doing, the only reason this country is in any kind of workable condition is because of _Iker_ —” 

“Keep me out of this, Fer,” Iker pants out. He’s having a hard enough time restraining the young prince and now he’s eyeing the King too. 

“How _dare_ you, you petulant little _brat_ —”

“Don’t you fucking call me your brother, David,” Fernando growls out. He pushes against Iker’s arms with all of his strength and one of Iker’s arms slips. Fernando takes the initiative to push free and then he lunges. 

David doesn’t move. He doesn’t even try. Fernando collides into him and they both go rolling off the bed to the ground.

“ _We haven’t fucking been brothers for years_.” 

Fernando’s voice comes in pitches from the ground as they roll and knock into things and one another. Iker’s shouts can barely be heard over Fernando and David’s own. Their backs knock into the side of the bed. Fernando’s on top first and then David rolls them over. Fernnado’s punch, aimed at David’s head, misses, but the second connects with his jaw. David kicks up and his knee catches Fernando’s stomach. Fernando loses his breath and manages to dig his elbow into David’s rib. 

“ _Fuck_!” David grunts and he slams his fist into Fernando’s shoulder. Fernando shouts in pain and he aims a kick at David’s chin. It nicks the end and the two of them crash into the bed post in pain before Iker springs in and forcibly separates the two of them.

“ _Enough_ ,” he yells. He grabs David by the shoulder and forces him up to his feet and then pushes him back down against his bed. “ _Enough, this is fucking disgraceful._ ”

He turns to Fernando, who’s still sprawled on the floor, clutching at his jaw and panting. On the bed, David’s chest is heaving up and down.

“What the _fuck_ do you think beating each other is going to accomplish?” Iker hisses, seething at both his prince and king. His eyes are flashing, his face is red, and he still has an ironclad grip on David’s shoulder. “One of you has to get married or you both do. That is the fucking fact of the matter. Beating each other until you’re bloody isn’t going to solve a single fucking thing unless the two of you have come up with a brilliant plan in the last minute.”

There’s silence as both Fernando and David try to catch their breaths. They glare daggers at each other, but say nothing.

“Well?” Iker demands. “Have you? Have you had a fucking revelation you care to share?”

Still the brothers say nothing so Iker finally lets go of David and gets up angrily. He’s breathing hard too, as though he was in the tussle.

“I didn’t think so. David, straighten the fuck up. You _have_ to find someone or Hodgson will forcibly take your throne from you. Fernando, you need to get the fuck over it. You’re not the only one dealing with the world’s burden.” Iker looks from one brother to the other, thoroughly disgusted.

He twists his wrists and covers his face with a hand. When he removes it, he looks not only spent, but disappointed. 

“You’re brothers,” Iker says to David and Fernando. He throws them both a dirty look before walking out of the room. “So start fucking acting like it.”

 

They lay there like that long enough to start feeling guilty. Fernando, for one, has an aching jaw and he thinks he’s fractured his ribs or at least breathing too hard feels makes it feel like it. He closes his eyes, hair splayed around him, and exhales painfully through his nose. He doesn’t just feel guilty, he feels stupid. 

“I’m sorry—” he says at the exact same time he hears David utter, “I’m a fucking idiot, Fer.” 

Fernando opens his eyes. He looks over to the bed, although he can’t see David from where he’s laying on his back. Carefully, gingerly, he pulls himself up to a sitting position. He hisses in pain. 

“Fuck, David,” he mutters. “Couldn’t take it easy on me could you?”

“You’re one to talk,” Fernando hears David wincing from the bed. His brother sits up too and then they can finally see one another’s faces. They’re flushed and somewhat banged up, but David still manages a sheepish smile. Fernando shakes his head in response. 

“We probably needed it out of our systems anyway,” he mutters.

“Tell that to Iker,” David groans. He rolls a shoulder and winces again. “Fuck, I haven’t been in a fight since I went away for college.”

“You used to get into fights more often than Mama and Papa could threaten you out of them,” Fernando says, remembering. “Nearly every boarding school you went to. I’m surprised they didn’t find you someone to marry right away. That way someone else would have to deal with you.” 

“Who the fuck would’ve wanted to marry that train wreck?” David chuckles. It’s not full of any kind of mirth though. He sighs instead and looks up at the ceiling. “Who’s going to want to marry this one?” 

It’s not the kind of question anyone likes to hear from their brother, let alone their sovereign. Fernando shrugs. 

“Anyone, David. Almost anyone. You’re the King, that counts for something.”

David laughs lowly. “King, right. I’m a fucking mess of a king too. I was better off being kicked out of boarding schools and forced into the Knights.” 

Fernando doesn’t know what to say to that. He feels his stomach knot in guilt, mostly because he agrees. 

“I’m not like you or Bo, you know,” David says, sighing. “Never had a level head. Never really listened to what people told me to do, even if it was for my own good. And where’s that gotten me? Who’s that gotten me, you know? You’ve been with Olalla how long? She still loves you. I’ve never had anyone like that.”

Again, something tugs at Fernando, like a puzzle piece he can’t place. He’s reminded of Iker for no particular reason, of how late he always stays, of how much he takes care of David. David would be a mess without Iker and they all know it. 

“You have Iker,” Fernando says with a smile. And it feels right, for some reason.

“Wouldn’t that be something?” David asks with a wry smile. “If I could marry Iker.” 

That’s when Fernando’s smile flickers. He lets out a low sigh and pulls his knees up to his sore chest. He rests his chin on top of his kneecaps and closes his eyes. 

“Yeah, David,” Fernando says. “That would be something.”

He doesn’t know why it has to be different. Olalla or Sergio, Iker or some other woman. Fernando can’t see the difference and it troubles him. Are two kings for a country really worse than just one? Is not having the option at all better than the alternative? Whether it’s a woman sharing David’s bed or a man, what does it really matter, in the end?

Fernando isn’t sure of anything, least of all their futures, but when David calls down to him and Fernando crawls onto the bed with his older brother, all he can think of is Sergio’s eyes and his arms around his shoulders.

He lays his head down near David’s, blond hair touching blond hair. Their shoulders bump in the way they used to when they were younger and their bodies were longer, thinner, less hardened from training and immortality. 

“Do you think you would, if you could?” Fernando asks, quietly.

“If I could what?” 

“Marry Iker,” Fernando answers. He shrugs. “Be with Iker. Have you ever thought about it?”

“I’m not _gay_ , Fer,” David laughs uneasily. 

“Who cares, David?” Fernando asks. “Why do you have to be one or the other? Why can’t you just love who you love?” 

David lifts his head and peers down at his younger brother. Fernando doesn’t like the way those eyes feel on his face, as though the gaze itself is calculated in a way that is purely judgmental. It makes him feel nauseous. 

“Fer, are you—”

“I’m not anything, Dave. I have Olalla.” And then, feeling even more nauseous, “For our country, I’ll marry Olalla.” 

David quiets, but his eyes are still on Fernando. Fernando opens his own and looks at his brother.

“But that doesn’t answer my question,” he says. “Would you, if you could?” 

David looks troubled. He lifts a shoulder in half a shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you love him?” 

“Well yes, but not in that way.”

“So in the way you love me and Bojan?” Fernando asks. 

Again, David looks troubled.

“Well not exactly, but—”

“Then what’s the difference? What is the difference between how you love Iker and the way you love anyone else?” 

There’s a silence that meets Fernando’s questions. David is either at a loss for what to say or he doesn’t know himself. Fernando thinks maybe David thinks it’s the former when it’s actually the latter. 

“I don’t know, Fer,” he says, finally. “It’s just different. It’s _Iker_.” 

That’s all the answer David has to give him. It’s funny, Fernando thinks as David’s breathing evens out, because it isn’t an answer at all and, if it is, he doesn’t think it’s the one David means for it to be. 

 

It’s hard, Fernando thinks, knowing there are strings taut all around him and not being able to pull a single one himself. He feels threads circling his wrists, tight lines capturing his ankles and legs, shoulders, and even neck. Fernando feels like he can’t move but for the grace of someone else and it makes it hard for him to breathe. He puts on his tie and combs his hair. He looks into the mirror and thinks _Oh, I look dapper. I look like a prince. I look like a person someone would want to take for life, to say I do to._

That’s the entire point, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. He sits on his bed and digs the palm of his hands into his eyes. He pinches his temples, pinches his cheeks, pinches his arms until they’re a raw red that can’t be seen on the outside because he’s clothed all over. There’s a sensation that it’s spiraling out of control, that the pieces he had in the palms of his hands were nothing but illusions to begin with. He can see multiple paths, but none he can take, because he isn’t the puppetmaster, only the puppet.

 

Fernando picks up his phone. It’s more than instinctual, it’s automatic. He scrolls through his numbers, scrolls past David, past Bojan and Iker, past Pipita and Garay, and half of his friends. He stops at the name he shouldn’t stop at and closes his eyes for just a moment before pressing Talk. 

The phone rings for longer than it should, but it gives Fernando time to compose himself. He thinks it’s better this way, that it goes to voicemail, that his voice prompts him to leave one, but Fernando won’t because he knows better than that. 

It doesn’t. There’s a little click at the end of the line and then Sergio’s voice, low and uncertain.

“Nando?” 

Fernando lets out a low breath. He brushes obsessively at a spot on his pants. 

“Hey, Sergio.” 

He doesn’t follow up after that, partly because he can’t think of what to say and partly because he just wants to hear Sergio breathe. It’s a problem, it’s a problem, it’s a problem.

“Hey, how are you?” Sergio asks, finally. 

Fernando hears his voice and his stomach twists and it’s a problem.

“Good,” he says. And then, “Okay.” And then, “Decent.” And then, “Awful.” 

Sergio lets out a breath on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Fernando doesn’t like how formal Sergio sounds. It’s unnatural. “Is there anything I can do?” 

There’s a variety of things Sergio can do, Fernando thinks. They range from _keep talking_ to _don’t forget me_ to _please, give me back my heart._ Mostly he wants to tell Sergio that the only thing that can help is the one thing that can’t. 

“I miss you,” Fernando says, quietly. He feels the ache in his chest acutely, not a dull throb, but a sharp, sudden stab. “I really, fucking miss you, Sergio.” 

Sergio’s breathing is shallower suddenly, possibly nonexistent. 

“Why are you telling me this, Nando?” 

“Don’t you miss me too?” Fernando sounds pathetic, even to his own ears. Weak, cowardly, disgusting. There’s only one thing he can do and that’s ruin this altogether. That’s what he’s good at, following rules and destroying everything else. This is a train hurtling toward the end of the tracks and Sergio doesn’t even know it. Fernando covers his face with sweating palms.

“Of course I miss you, Nando,” Sergio sounds upset. “Of course I fucking do, you _know_ I fucking do. Why are you telling me this?” 

It’s like he knows, it’s like Sergio is on the train and the windows are covered and the compartment is locked but somehow, because of the motion and the look of panic on Fernando’s face, he knows. 

“I’m going to ask Olalla to marry me,” Fernando chokes out. “I’m going to ask her to marry me, tonight, and she’s going to say yes.” 

The silence on the line is astounding. It’s pure, unfiltered silence, the kind that presses in on Fernando’s ear and starts to crawl down his esophagus and into his chest. 

“I have to—”

“How the fuck dare you,” Sergio’s voice comes, low and angry. 

“Sergio, I—”

“You call me to tell me you fucking miss me and that you’re marrying someone _else_?” He’s angry. Definitely angry. “What the fuck did you expect me to say, Fernando? Congratulations? I’m happy for you? Well of course you’re marrying the princess, did you think I didn’t know it was going to happen?” 

“You knew?” Fernando asks, eyes growing wide.

“I knew you would _one day_. Fuck, Fernando, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Sergio is growling into the phone now. “You know how I feel, you’ve already fucked with me once. You think what, because you’re the prince, it’s okay for you to do it again?”

“Sergio, I didn’t mean to—”

“Well _fuck you_ , your highness, I don’t play these games—”

“I just needed to tell you,” Fernando sounds desperate. He sounds pathetic and desperate. He hates himself for it. “I wanted to hear your voice—”

“I deserve better than this and you know it,” Sergio says. “I said goodbye to you for a reason. It was the hardest fucking thing I’ve had to do, but I did it anyway. I did it for _you_ because I know how much your precious fucking throne means to you.” 

“Sergio, fuck—”

“Stop stringing me along,” Sergio spits into the line. “I’m sick of it. Xabi’s right, I deserve better.”

“Who’s Xabi—”

“Good luck on your engagement,” Sergio says, icily. “Congratulations, I hope you and the princess are happy together. Don’t call me again, I’ll put this stupid fucking phone in the mail and send it back to you. I’d show up at the gates, but I wouldn’t want to be thrown out again.” 

Fernando doesn’t know what to say. He has some semblance of words, but they die in the middle of his throat. There’s nothing he could possibly say, he doesn’t know why he bothered trying. Sergio is apparently unimpressed with his lack of effort.

“Whatever. I’m done with this. Have a good life, my _prince_ ,” are Sergio’s final words and then the line goes dead. 

Fernando throws the phone across the room. He throws it at the wall, as hard as he possibly can. It’s a smart phone, the most expensive one money can buy. Of course it doesn’t break. It does nothing satisfying at all, simply hits the wall with a thud and slides to the floor. 

He can’t breathe. There are a lot of things he can’t do, and breathing is one of them. He leaves his phone lying on the floor, opens his door and slams it shut behind him. It’s not the right time to run, he’s not dressed to run, but he does. 

Fernando’s heart is breaking and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He saw the edge of the cliff coming, but he hadn’t realized that he, and not Sergio, would be the one hurtling off of it at the end.

 

Olalla doesn’t catch him, per se. She’s not waiting for him at the edge of the grounds, doesn’t grasp his shoulder, slip her hand into his and urge that they run together. She’s not waiting for him there at all, because this is real life, not some figment of his imagination. 

But she is waiting somewhere. She’s waiting in front of the restaurant, outside of her car with bodyguards surrounding her. She’s waiting in her proper dress with her hair properly coiffed, her necklace properly strung about her neck, her hands properly at her sides. Everything is neat, calculated, exactly how it should be. She looks beautiful. Fernando wants to rip it all off. 

He doesn’t come by car. He comes running, nice shoes hitting the pavement hard and his feet are probably bloodied and he looks a right mess, but he doesn’t care. Olalla looks up just in time to see him come for her and it’s ridiculous, he looks like an absolute idiot, but it’s all he can think to do. 

She knows him better than anyone else in the entire world. So Olalla doesn’t catch him, per se. But when Fernando comes running, upset, face flushed, Olalla reaches a hand out. She pushes past her bodyguards and reaches a hand out and as Fernando reaches her, he takes it and together, they both run.

 

They don’t run very far because it’s not practical that way. He’s out of breath and Olalla’s hair is out of place, her jewelry sliding off, her dress nearly ripping at the bottom seams from the amount of times it’s caught on her heels. They round a corner and Fernando stops them both. Olalla leans against the wall, completely out of breath. 

“Th-they’re not following anymore,” she wheezes out painfully. 

Fernando can barely breathe, let alone speak. He’s bent over, trying to catch his breath. He nods. 

They collect themselves for a few minutes. Fernando can’t look up at her, but he doesn’t need to. Olalla studies his face, takes his hand in hers and tugs him up.

“How do you feel about burgers?”

 

The place is a diner, old and small, with neon flickering lights. It’s not typical to Andalucía, although Fernando remembers seeing similar establishments in the United States when he would visit with his mother and father. He and Olalla slip into a booth together. There are plenty of people packed inside the diner, but no one seems to be paying them a bit of attention. Fernando’s grateful. He’s still a little dizzy from running, a little disoriented from absolutely everything.

“What would you like?” a thin girl with long, brown hair comes to stand by their table. A plain name tag glints on her chest. _Sara._

“Two hamburgers with fries, please,” Olalla looks up at Sara pleasantly. “No onions or pickles. And two milkshakes, one chocolate and one strawberry.” 

“We have a special on our chili tonight, half price. Pretty delicious, if you care to try it.” Sara doesn’t smile, but Olalla doesn’t seem to care. She smiles prettily anyway.

“Sure, that sounds good. Again, two.”

“I’ll be right out with your order,” Sara nods after jotting it down on her notepad. She whisks away down the narrow aisles to give the cook their order.

Olalla, as calm as ever, finally turns back to Fernando. She doesn’t smile this time. She doesn’t even look concerned. She tucks back stray strands of hair and waits.

Fernando doesn’t know what to say, at first. There’s too much happening to him at once, high strung emotions and flitting thoughts mixed with shouted words and adrenaline still beating in his veins. He chokes up at first, finds his tongue too thick to say anything at all. He doesn’t know how he’s going to ask the princess to marry him, and here of all places, and he thinks maybe everything was a waste after all. 

“I thought it’d be easier,” he says, finally. “When I was younger I’d think a lot about it, about what would happen if Mama and Papa died. I thought it would be easier. That there would be no expectations anymore. That I could decide what I wanted to do, for myself, for the first time in my entire life.” 

Olalla doesn’t interrupt. She reaches across the table and laces her fingers through Fernando’s. It’s comforting. 

“I was stupid. I didn’t think it would actually happen. I thought they would be here forever. I thought they would still be alive when they gave the throne to David, that we’d still have guidance. I didn’t think they would actually leave us, Ol. I don’t know what to do about it.” 

Olalla squeezes his fingers gently. 

“I feel guilty,” Fernando breathes out. He tips his head back and closes his eyes. His shoulders are heavy, his entire body feels like lead. “I feel guilty all the fucking time. I wasn’t as upset as I should have been when they died. I should have been there with them. I shouldn’t have run. I feel like everything is my fault.”

“What’s your fault, Fer?” Olalla asks, finally. Her face is drawn with concern. “Your parents dying?” 

“It’s not rational, I know that. But I could have been a better son. I could have told Mama I loved her more. I could have become the prince they wanted me to be.” Fernando shakes his head. “I feel guilty all the _fucking time_.” 

Olalla doesn’t say anything. The sounds of the diner gurgle up around them. At some point, Sara comes back with their burgers, shakes, fries, and chili. She sets it all on the table and leaves. Olalla lets go of Fernando’s hand.

“Eat something. It’ll make you feel better.” 

Fernando doubts it, but he picks up a fry anyway. He sighs and dabs it in the ketchup.

“I’m sorry I have to bring you into this,” he says. He looks up at Olalla. She’s sipping at her milkshake delicately. She shrugs her shoulder.

“Fernando, I’ve known you since we were kids. I don’t care what we are to each other second, we’re friends first. You are _always_ my best friend first, do you understand that?” 

Fernando nods. He feels like shit again, because it feels like a lie, to his best friend. He chews on his French fry and then swallows. 

“I love you, Ol,” he says, finally. “You know that, right?”

Olalla smiles at him. It’s understanding. Fernando thinks out of all of the things Olalla is, good and bad, at the heart of it, she’s always understanding.

“Of course I know, Fernando. I know you love me, I know how much, I know since when.” 

“Since when?” Fernando asks, blinking.

Olalla laughs and sticks a fry in her mouth.

“Since the day you met me.”

It’s so matter-of-fact that it catches him off guard. Fernando has to blink away the surprise before, for the very first time in what feels like ages, his face breaks into a smile. He leans forward and runs a hand up her arm, runs it over her shoulder, and cups her face. He tugs her forward over the food and their lips meet in a kiss. 

It’s different from every kiss he’s ever shared with Sergio, but it means no less. He loves her just as much, possibly more. But it’s different. Like David and Iker and everyone else, it’s different.

“Olalla,” Fernando whispers as they break away.

Olalla’s face is expectant. She knows. She always knows. 

Fernando brushes a thumb over her jaw and presses another kiss to her lips. 

“Will you marry me?” 

Olalla doesn’t answer for a moment, but not because she doesn’t have the answer. She does and Fernando knows what it is, too. She studies him instead, stares intently into his eyes, as though wanting or needing to find something there. If she finds it, Fernando doesn’t know. Instead her face lights up in a wry smile. 

“Depends. Where’s my ring?”

Fernando blinks, again, and then laughs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black, velvet box. 

“Do I need to get down on my knees?” he asks.

“God, do I look like that kind of girl?” Olalla says with a wrinkle to her face. 

Fernando opens the box and plucks the ring out. Olalla gives him her hand and he slides it on. The ring glints on her delicate finger, glints brightly in the dim lighting of the diner. 

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Fernando says with a grin. Olalla kisses his mouth in response and his grin widens. “When your mother asks, you’re going to have to tell her that you were proposed to over burgers and fries.”

Olalla’s face lights up when she laughs. It truly, completely lights up. She looks breathtaking. Fernando kisses her again and she’s still laughing.

“Perfect,” the princess says, finally. She dips a French fry in ketchup and dabs Fernando’s nose with it. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	17. David; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VII. David; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 3,487  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Fernando Torres/Olalla Dominguez, pre-David Beckham/Iker Casillas  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16 for language  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


**VII. David**   
_when fools can be kings_   


David is the first to hear. Of course David is the first to hear; he’s king and that’s the expected course of action. He looks from Fernando’s embarrassed face to Olalla’s beaming one. Their mother’s engagement ring is shining on the proper finger, hand resting casually at her side. Her other hand is in Fernando’s, their fingers intertwined, arms pressed together. David thinks they look right together. They look happy. Truthfully, he’s jealous, but that’s not fair so he pushes it to the back of his mind and decides to be happy for them instead. 

“It’s about fucking time,” David’s face breaks out into a sincere grin. He moves forward and wraps Olalla into an embrace, shouldering Fernando out of the way and laughing as the younger prince flushes and scowls at his older brother. “I’ve always liked you better than him, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t be surprised the number of times I hear that in a day,” Olalla says, grinning and hugging David back. David laughs appreciatively and picks her up, manages to spin her once and set her back on the ground. When he does, her hair is slightly askew and she’s pink in the face from happiness. 

“I’ve always wanted you in the family, Ol,” David says with a smile. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’ll be nice to have a sister-in-law.”

“I’m not cleaning up after you, if that’s what you’re implying,” Olalla teases and returns David’s kiss by placing one on either cheek. 

“Oh of course not,” David says. “We’ll leave that to Fernando, what else is he good for?” 

“I’m right here,” Fernando complains loudly, wrinkling his face. 

“It wouldn’t be nearly as fun if you weren’t,” is David’s answer. He has the distinct urge to ruffle Fernando’s hair, like he did once upon a time, when they were younger and Fernando wasn’t about to become a married man. 

“Are we making fun of Fer?” comes a small voice from behind David. The party turns slightly and there’s Bojan, followed shortly by Iker whose face is glued to what looks to be a moleskine notebook. Bojan elbows Iker in the side and Iker blinks and resurfaces. 

“We heard noises,” Iker says matter-of-factly. He has a strange look on his face, like a wry smile pulled up short. David catches his eyes and tries not to smile too obviously. He’s always too obvious around his Chief Advisor; he always forgets how unprofessional it is to be best friends first.

“Holy fuck, Fer, what did you _do_?” comes Bojan’s surprised voice and David and Iker both look toward the youngest prince, who’s moved forward and is now holding Olalla’s hand in his own. 

“What kind of a reaction is that?” the blond asks, clearly annoyed, but Bojan ignores him and just looks down at Olalla, grinning. 

“I am so sorry,” he says immediately. 

“I’ve heard that before too,” Olalla says with a laugh before she’s enveloped in Bojan’s strong arms. Her face nests somewhere near his right shoulder and she’s so tiny, even Bojan can lift her off the ground neatly. 

“Well damn,” Iker says, adding to the fray. “He got to you before I could.”

“I kept waiting for you, Iker,” Olalla replies with a grin. She’s finally been set on her feet and she working on dusting herself off, but not very successfully. The moment Bojan lets go, Fernando snakes his arms around her waist and pulls her to him, as though proving to everyone, once and for all, through an extreme show of possessiveness, that she’s his after all.

“Oh!” she exclaims as Fernando rests his chin on her shoulder. She turns even pinker, but it’s pleased in all the best of ways. “You took too long, so I had to settle.”

“You’ll never find another like me,” Iker says gravely, shaking his head. “You’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life.”

“She’ll survive,” Fernando says, somewhere near her ear. He presses a kiss to the back of her jaw and she flushes deeper. David doesn’t think he’s ever seen the princess at a loss for words, but he supposes he doesn’t blame her.

“With you,” David says. He waves over Iker’s shoulder at some servants—a tall blond man and a shorter blond man, both of whom are staring unabashedly at the scene in the throne room—to motion for them to bring celebratory champagne. “I don’t know which is worse.” 

“A life with Fernando or a life with Iker,” Bojan muses out loud, slowly. He cocks his head and surveys his options. Then he turns to Olalla and gives her a sympathetic look. “I think I have some hemlock stored away if you want. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Olalla shakes her head with a laugh. “Not tonight. But I’ll keep that in mind.” 

It’s a few more minutes of good hearted banter and jostling of shoulders and half-hugs and kisses to temples before the two blonds come stumbling into the hall with multiple flutes and two large bottles of champagne. 

“Pop them for us,” David says to them in what he thinks is a commanding tone, but which is, in reality, as unKingly as it is possible to be. The two blond servants blink and David thinks he’ll fix his reputation later. Right now, he just wants to celebrate with his—well, his family. All of them. 

The servants fill the flutes and pass them around. David clears his throat in what is, actually, a somewhat authoritative manner and everyone turns to look at him. 

He smiles clearly and raises his flute. 

“To Fernando and Olalla, my brother and new sister. If Mama and Papa were still here,” his voice softens and he looks at Fernando as he says this, “they would be beside themselves with joy. So let’s not let them down. To our growing family.”

“To Fernando and Olalla,” Bojan and Iker mutter after him. 

The five of them lean close together to clink glasses. David downs his champagne, almost in one gulp. When he resurfaces, he’s grinning again. 

“So who’s planning the wedding?”

 

It’s almost more merrymaking than David cares for, which is particularly strange because he remembers a time when he would have been the happiest of them all. It’s different as King, he thinks, and if nothing to this point had proven how much so, then this certainly did the job. He’s happy for Fernando, happy for Olalla, happy for the royal family and what this means for Andalucía. If David doesn’t find someone to marry, then Fernando has. If David cannot continue being king, then Fernnado can. Andalucía is safe. Their family lineage is safe. 

David doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but it makes him feel a little miserable. He’s not jealous, not as such, but the way Fernando’s hand finds the small of Olalla’s back, the way she looks up at him with those large, brown eyes, and the way he looks back at her makes something in David’s throat constrict and he has to turn away, every time. He thinks he finds Iker watching him each time, but either Iker’s too good at being subtle or David’s too good at ignoring, because he decides it’s just his mind playing tricks in the end. 

“I’m going to sleep,” he says finally, with a sheepish grin. “I know, don’t look at me like that. Being king wears me out, I don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Fernando laughs and David shrugs with a small grin. 

“You and me both.” 

He leaves Bojan and Fernando and Iker in the throne room, gives Olalla another kiss on her cheek before parting. He’s exhausted from emotion, tired from the number of thoughts running through his head and he wishes, not for the first time, that he could just jump on a boat and sail away. He’s done it before, but never as King, and he’s reminded, again, of how much his entire life has changed. 

David dodges most of the palace staff, somehow, makes it back to his room and finds a warm jacket to wear. He’s tired, but he needs a bit of fresh air. He wants to sit somewhere in the dark, alone, and watch as his country flickers into life. There’s only one place he can think of, so he finds himself climbing familiar stairs to the side of the cathedral. Luckily, the Archbishop is nowhere in sight, although he sees Jésus Navas and Káka, heads bent together, talking about something seemingly important near the corner of the grounds. He hurries up the stairs faster, feels his legs pump up and down under him, and the burning in his thighs feels better than he could imagine it. He hasn’t been running in ages, hasn’t really left the palace or the board room in recent memory. It isn’t only the duties of Kingship that has him drawn and tired, but it’s the style of life too. He thinks he never appreciated what his father did for him and the country before, but now he wishes he could go back and watch everything his father had ever done so that he would have a hope of being ready to burden the entire country on his shoulders. 

“Fuck, I’m out of shape,” David says to no one in particular as he reaches the top of the stairs. The stairs unfold into a short, stone walkway that ends with the bell and the open entranceway that looks out onto the grounds and beyond into the city sprawled near the bottom of the hill. He walks toward the edge, ducks around the bell, and pulls his jacket closer around him. The wind bites into his skin, but he doesn’t really care. 

For a moment he closes his eyes and lets his skin be chilled. His blond hair flips back and forth, tickling his chin and producing an itch near his ear. He scratches it and then sighs and opens his eyes. 

There’s a certain majesty to lights unfolding around the edges of a sprawling city. The city at the edge of the palace isn’t so large that there are skyscrapers or fluorescent, artificial lights that rob the night of its character. Andalucía is an older country, with vivid colors, fading at the edges, yellow and orange lights flickering in and out while music winds through empty streets. When the city flutters to life, it isn’t fast-paced or artificial, but dimmer, slower, as though it’s taking its time to breath, to reach out a hand and steady itself before it lays itself bare to the beholder. 

David could watch his country like this, at its best, at its most beautiful, he thinks he could do nothing but watch it like this at all times. He just wishes it wasn’t _his_ country and that’s just the problem. 

 

He doesn’t hear footsteps behind him because shoes are easily muffled against the large cobblestones as long as they slide smoothly over them. When Iker touches his shoulder, David gasps and jumps a little and Iker’s fist closes more firmly over his shoulder.

“Jesus, don’t jump over the edge,” his Chief Advisor says with a faint smile. 

“Don’t scare me while I’m close to the edge,” David admonishes, but it isn’t with any real bite behind it. There’s never any bite he can offer when it comes to Iker, his oldest, most trusted friend. David leans his head against the wall and continues to watch his city. 

Iker seemingly knows better than to protest, he simply stands next to David and leans his shoulder against David’s own. 

“You left fast.” 

David sighs and shifts. His shoulder presses more firmly against Iker’s. 

“Was it that obvious?” 

“Only to me,” Iker murmurs. “You wanna talk about it?”

David shakes his head, at first. He lets glazed eyes continue watching the distance, at first. He rubs his cool nose with the base of his palm, at first. Then he sighs and nods.

“Fernando’s getting married, Iker.” 

“So I gathered,” Iker says wryly. 

“No, you don’t understand,” David says softly. “ _Fernando’s_ getting married.”

Iker is quiet a moment.

“Are you sad that it wasn’t you?” 

“No,” David says. He tilts his head and his cheek finds Iker’s shoulder. “Fer deserves it. He and Olalla have been together longer than I’ve committed to anything.”

“You don’t think it’s about the throne?” 

“It’s Fer. He probably wants the throne less than I do.” 

Iker clucks his tongue. He reaches up and runs a light hand through David’s hair, tries to smooth out stray strands. David hums approvingly without even realizing it. 

“What have I told you? Don’t say shit like that, someone’s going to hear.”

“Maybe they should,” David says. “Maybe they should know what a fraud I am.”

“You’re not a fraud. You’re the king. You were the oldest son, the eldest crowned prince.”

“It was never supposed to be me. It was supposed to be Vic.”

Iker’s shoulder stiffens. 

“Victoria left, David. Fuck, dios, why can’t you get that through your head?” 

Iker moves away and David misses his shoulder immediately. He looks up at Iker with large, doleful eyes, but his best friend is having none of it. He looks, frankly, pissed. 

“Am I wasting my time with you, Dave?” 

“I—what?” 

“Fuck, here I am doing all of this fucking work I don’t need to be doing, trying to help you run a country that isn’t mine. I don’t care,” Iker says, although it sounds anything but. He sounds frustrated, tired, angry. He looks it too and David feels a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll do all of the work you need me to, but I’m tired of this.” 

“Tired of what?” David asks softly. 

“Tired of this,” Iker gestures between the two of them. “I can’t fucking keep whispering words into your ears if you’re set on never believing them. Tell me, David. Am I doing all of this for nothing? Are you planning on giving up the throne just because you can now? Because you’d rather be having fun on a boat in the Caribbean?” 

David feels a different pang this time, one of irritation. 

“Fuck, is that what you think I want?”

“I don’t _know_ what you want and, frankly, I don’t think you do either.”

“You don’t think I want to be king?” 

“You haven’t fucking acted like it. You’re always bitching—”

“I wasn’t _ready_ ,” David snaps. He’s clenching his fists now, trying to ignore the ringing in his head. “I wasn’t fucking _ready_ for this and I had no mentors, no help—”

“Oh stop with the self-victimizing,” Iker eyes him with irritation. “That’s all we’ve heard you do for _months_ now. We know you weren’t ready. Neither were we. That doesn’t fucking _matter_ anymore, David, the time for whining is over. You have an army spiraling out of control, an Archbishop who’s power-hungry, a family that’s falling apart, an economy that’s crashing, rebel armies gathering forces, a war that’s in the palm of your hands. _Bitching isn’t going to make it go away David._ ”

David fucking hates being talked down to. He hates feeling stupid and he hates that nearly every advisor he has feels the need to treat him as such. He _isn’t_ stupid, he’s fucking learning and that’s as much as he can do at this point. 

“Fuck, Iker,” he breathes out in frustration. He rubs a hand across his tired face. “Don’t you think I fucking know that? I _know_ I’m making a mess of things. We’ve had this conversation. We have this conversation every fucking time.”

“Then _why_ won’t you stop—”

“ _Because you’re the only one who lets me._ ” 

Iker stops in the middle of forming, ostensibly, another tirade. His mouth is open in half of a vowel, but he closes it immediately. He has the decency to look surprised or shocked or, at least, stricken, somewhat. 

“I know, okay? I know that I’m the king, I know the responsibilities I have.” David lets out a low breath and laughs. “I know I’m doing a great job of fucking it up and I’m trying not to let it get to me, but it’s fucking hard, Iker. Everyone’s waiting for me to fuck up. You are the _only_ one who believes in me. The _only_ one who isn’t waiting for me to destroy the country.” 

“David they aren’t—”

“You’re the only one I feel comfortable with,” David says softly. He looks as sad as he feels, a heavy, leaden feeling in his chest that makes it hard for him to breathe at all, let alone properly. “You’re the only fucking one.” 

It feels like an admission of sort, like he’s confessing to more than he’s saying, but David doesn’t have the mental or emotional capacity to look beyond the obvious now. He shakes his head as Iker sighs and then Iker beckons him. 

“Come here,” he says softly. 

It’s an invitation and David takes it without thinking twice. Iker’s arms envelope him and even though David’s taller, he feels secure. He rests his forehead on Iker’s shoulder and breathes out through his nose. His arms are around Iker’s waist and he thinks this feels so right and it always has. 

“I do believe in you, dios,” Iker says softly into David’s blond hair. “You’re the only one who doesn’t and that fucking pisses me off sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?”

“All the time.” Iker shakes his head. David feels his lips near his ear and there’s a tingling at the tips of his fingers. “Fer’s getting married, David. It’s not the end of the world, not even close.”

David shakes his head, eyes closed. 

“I’ll never find someone in time.”

David thinks he feels Iker stiffen, but it’s not noticeable enough for him to tell for sure. 

“Do you want to give the throne to Fernando that easily?”

It’s a trick question, a Catch-22 and David’s sick of hearing it. 

“No.” 

“Then don’t,” Iker says. “If you don’t want Fernando to be king, then don’t fucking let him.” 

It’s a fight, David things. An uphill journey or a battle fought only with butter knives and a ragtag army of himself and one other. He doesn’t know how to proceed, but he knows he needs to. He’s not the king anyone wants him to be, but he’s still King, and somehow—it just occurs to him now—that that actually means something. 

 

It’s cold by the time they walk the stairs down. It’s cold enough that David is shivering, even under his jacket. They reach the bottom of the stairs and Iker’s nodded to him and motioned that he’s going to go back to his apartment when something in David snaps. It’s a sudden nausea, a sharp flick on his wrist, a pain that’s so immediate that he can’t think around it. 

He reaches out and encircles Iker’s bicep with a hand.

“What?” Iker asks, confused.

“Don’t go,” David says.

“—what?” 

“Fuck, can you just stay, tonight?” David asks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. He thinks he’s asking too much or not enough. “My room’s a fucking cavern and I’m just tired and it’s fucking late—”

“My apartment is barely a block away, Dave,” Iker says with a frown.

“Then let me come with you,” David says, suddenly.

“ _What_ \--”

“I’ve never been. I don’t want to stay here, I just want to go somewhere, anywhere.” David’s eyes are widening as he realizes, suddenly, how true his words are. “Iker, I don’t want to stay alone, don’t make me.” 

Iker looks at David warily, looks from his face and then up the stairs and then back down. He’s hesitant. He’s clearly, obviously hesitant. 

“You’re King, David, it wouldn’t be right.”

“We’ve been best friends since we were kids, Iker,” David says weakly, desperately. “Don’t think of me as the king, think of me as Dave.”

“Yeah, Dave,” Iker says, suddenly muttering darkly and throwing David a glowering look. “Just Dave from the park, nothing else.”

“I’m going to follow you home,” David says, ignoring Iker. “I will follow you home like a puppy, you know I will. Or I’ll take a plane somewhere, anywhere. Fuck, I’ve done it before, I just need to be anywhere but here.”

David is relentless. It’s part of his charm, normally, although possibly that’s just what he likes to think. Iker looks at him, thoroughly irritated, but eventually gives in.

“Fine,” he says sourly. “But don’t expect it to be a palace.” 

He turns on his heels and starts stalking off across the lawn. David hurries to follow him, shivering from the cold in the process. 

“Thank fuck,” he mutters somewhere near Iker’s shoulder. “I’ve had about as much of the palace as I can take.”


	18. David; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VII. David; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 6,190  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** David Beckham/Iker Casillas  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16 for language and sexual situations  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

  


  
**VII. David**   
_when fools can be kings_   


Iker’s apartment really isn’t very far from the palace. David hurries to keep up with him because the other man’s pace is faster than expected, as though he’s trying to lose him which, knowing Iker, is exactly his intention. David mostly ignores his stubborn petulance, just happy to be out of the palace and surrounded by fresh air instead of old stone, burning torches, and stodgy men in starched suits. He stretches his arms as they walk, rolls his shoulders and jogs in front of Iker after a while. He doesn’t know where he’s going, so he turns around and begins running backwards instead, laughing when he’s encountered with Iker’s wry look, a half-hidden smile and barely-hidden exasperation. 

They turn at the corner of the grounds, follow a wide, clean street bordered by houses made of red bricks and painted in shades of bright blue and salmon. David lets his fingers drift along the stones as they pass and Iker makes him duck into the cover of his jacket a few times as old men and women with grocery bags pass. 

“Will you protect my life from any and all assassination attempts?” he asks teasingly, drifting closer to Iker and shifting an arm across the other man’s shoulders. 

“You’re assuming I won’t be the one attempting them,” Iker replies promptly with a twitch to his lips. His shoulders feel stiff under David’s arm, so David nudges the side of Iker’s head with his nose, gently, an automatic response evolved from years of subtle teasing and comfortable touching. 

“Nah, I’ve seen your hand-to-hand and you’re a shit shot,” David declares. He tweaks Iker’s ear as the other man scowls. “Besides, you wouldn’t know what to with yourself without me.”

“Sleep. Eat. Find some time to go shopping,” Iker begins listing and David pinches his side. Iker squirms away and David laughs before moving closer. 

“No one needs that much plaid in their wardrobe, really, I’m doing us all a favor.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Iker says, sounding slightly wistful. “I haven’t been out of uniform in years.” 

“The days I used to say that about my shorts and jersey,” David replies, just as nostalgically. 

“They were falling apart at the seam by the time the Queen confiscated them.” 

“She never knew, but I stole them back,” David says. He sighs into the cool air a little and tilts his head up. 

“You could easily have gotten a new one.”

“Yeah,” David says with a small smile and a shrug. “But that one was from you.”

Iker turns to look at the older man, a strange glimmer in his eyes. David thinks he looks wary or confused or maybe it’s nothing like that at all. It turns into a withering, critical look soon enough and David shoves him away playfully. Their feet pound into the smooth sidewalk and David forgets he’s King for just a handful of minutes. 

Iker turns another corner and he follows him closely. They’re drawing close to a cluster of official looking apartments. David recognizes the crest on the side of the gate closing off the white stoned buildings. Warm light glows through most of the windows, although curtains are drawn closed so David can’t see into them. 

“Which one’s yours?” 

“Ah, well.” Iker looks a little embarrassed as he presses a button into the gate’s entrance. The speaker crackles as a voice answers at the other end.

“Yes?”

“It’s Iker.” 

There’s a little more crackling and a click as the gate swings open. 

David follows Iker through and turns his head to catch the gate swinging shut behind the two of them smoothly. They pass the guard’s house and Iker nods inside to a young man with a bright smile and tall, stiff hair. 

“How’s it going?” Iker pokes his head in through the window. 

“Cold night,” the young man answers. He’s chewing on an apple. Either he doesn’t notice David or doesn’t recognize him. 

“I told you to bring a jacket,” Iker admonishes and the young man laughs. 

“And I told you to bring someone home.” 

“Fuck you,” Iker scowls. And then, cheeks slightly brightly, “I did.” 

David peeks over Iker’s shoulder and waves tentatively to the young man. He expects widened eyes, a shock of revelation, a flurry of movements as the young man rushes to rise. What he gets instead is a shake and then somewhat respectful nod of the head.

“Someone to fuck, not the King himself.”

It turns out that David is the one who’s left surprised. He blinks rapidly and Iker’s scowl deepens.

“Respect your King. He could have you arrested for indecency.”

“If he wanted someone arrested for indecency, he would find someone else to spend his time with.” Perhaps that jogs his memory anyway because the young man stands and bows slightly to David. The top of his hair brushes his desk and David has to stifle a laugh. 

“That’s quite the hair you have—?”

“José,” the young man grins. “But you can call me Calleti, your highness. Most people do. If you want to call me anything at all, I mean. I also respond to hey you and kid with the hair!” 

“Well it is quite the hair,” David remarks.

“I know,” José beams. He pats the top of his spikes. “It just happened one day and before I knew it, it couldn’t be stopped.”

David laughs appreciatively until he feels Iker’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well the King and I have business to attend to,” he says over David’s shoulder. He nods inside to José. “Don’t let anyone know he’s here.” 

“You got it, boss,” José nods. “Your highness.”

He bows to David again before closing the little guard’s door from the cold and returning to his tasks—namely, his apple. Iker nods his head toward the buildings again and steers David up the driveway. It forks around an island of red and green plants that seem to thrive better in the cold than in the warmth before splitting off into the driveways of each separate building. There are cars parked in marked and unmarked spots, most of which are more luxurious than David expected them to be.

“They’re mostly official suites,” Iker says by way of explanation. “A lot of your advisors have housing here, although their families live elsewhere. I’ll let you imagine what they use their official rooming for.”

David raises an eyebrow and Iker shrugs.

“They’re used to it, so they never tell anyone.”

“Who?” 

“The hookers,” Iker says simply. This catches David by surprise, but given his own history with women and escorts, he’s not in much of a position to judge. He follows Iker past the first two buildings.

“Have you ever—” David begins, but Iker cuts him off short. 

“No. I don’t have the time.”

“When was the last time—”

“Not _outside_ ,” Iker hisses in annoyance. He looks around them as though someone might have stumbled upon the two of them and overheard their conversation. When he’s certain that no one’s eavesdropping, he levels David with a glower. His glare is cut short by their arrival in front of the last white building on the row. There’s no glow coming from this one if only because there is only one window and one door, unlike the others. There’s a winding set of stairs set into a hill that tips up and masks the front half of the building, as though it’s set into it. The door at the end is bright blue, in complete contrast to the regal white of everything else.

“This is yours?” 

“Yeah,” Iker mumbles. He sets up the stairs and David follows close behind. “It’s at the end and had a few problems so no one else wanted it, but I liked the privacy. It’s more like an abandoned house than an apartment building anyway.” 

“Is there only one apartment inside?”

“Two, actually, but since I’m the only one who lives here, I had it remodeled a while back,” Iker says. He reaches the top of the stairs and fishes in his pocket for keys. “Took out the walls separating the apartments, so now it’s two separate wings connected by a hall that leads to the stairs.”

Iker twists the key in the lock with a snap and then slides the door open. He flicks on a switch inside and David follows thereafter. He’s relieved to get out of the cold, his face and nose already pink from the bite of the wind. Iker closes the door around him while David stares up into white stairs surrounded by white walls and framed by black and white checkered tiles. 

“How colorful,” he comments, to which Iker shrugs.

“Barely ever in here anyway. I’m upstairs, come on.”

David runs his fingers along the railing as they take the stairs up. Everything is almost painfully clean and the apartment building is so quiet it reverberates in his head. He hasn’t had this much space or time to think to himself in longer than he can remember. Iker leads him through the long hallway he had mentioned. He gestures to the left and explains the bedrooms are through there and that the kitchen and living areas are to the right. 

“Where do you bring people home to?” David asks, grinning, as he takes the right-side hallway to the living room. Like everything else seems to be, there’s a heavy emphasis on the color white and Iker’s extremely minimalist style. Or maybe the other man just never bothered decorating. 

“None of your business,” Iker answers at first. And then, at the look from David, he sighs, “Living room or the bedroom. Don’t worry, the couch is clean.” 

David laughs and throws himself on it. The leather is incredibly soft and David sinks into the cushions with an audible sigh of luxury and comfort. 

“I don’t think I’d care either way,” he says, voice muffled in the seat cushion. He feels something hit the back of his head and he laughs, but doesn’t move. David thinks he could stay like this forever, in utter bliss and quiet, relaxed, head buried into the softest sofa he has ever been on. 

“Make yourself at home if you must,” Iker’s voice comes from somewhere over his shoulder. “I have no food, so I hope beer suits your delicate royal sensibilities, your _highness_.” 

“Only if it’s good beer!” David shouts, muffled, to which Iker’s reply comes, “All beer is good beer!” and also “Fuck you!”

David smiles into the couch, stretches his arms and legs wide so that he’s sprawled over entirely and then hanging off the edges. By the time Iker returns with the beer, he’s considering taking a nap. Iker has other ideas. He nudges David’s legs and threatens to sit down on them and when the King refuses, actually does. 

“Fuck!” David scowls and pulls his legs up fast as he scrambles to a sitting position. “We’re not ten anymore, fatass, you actually weigh a ton!” 

Iker laughs in response and shoves the bottle at David’s face. 

“Get up faster next time.” 

David continues scowling as he takes the drink, although that lasts for approximately ten seconds before he gives in to his usual easy grin. Iker’s already popped the lid off so he tilts back the cold bottle and tries not to guzzle the alcohol. He’s apparently thirstier than he realized.

“I definitely feel like I’m enabling something,” Iker says. He pulls his legs up under him and reaches toward the center table for the remote. His suit jacket rides up and David watches lazily without realizing it. Iker’s shirt is tucked into his pants, of course, so there’s no expanse of skin to greet him, but he wonders, for a second, what it would look like. 

“When was the last time you watched TV?” Iker says, settling back with a sideways grin. 

“I think Bojan was still in diapers and Fernando had trouble getting laid,” David replies. Iker turns the television on and images flicker into life. David laughs. “Oh wait, that was last week.”

Iker shakes his head, as though ashamed, but in reality there’s a smile glued to his face. David thinks he hasn’t seen the other man smile in ages and it makes him happy, somewhere close to his chest. He scoots closer to his friend, bumps shoulders and tips back his beer again. 

“I’m lucky you’re paying for this,” Iker murmurs at the screen. “I can’t remember the last time I turned this thing on. Or what I watched.” 

“Porn,” David replies lazily. “Probably really bad porn.”

Iker shakes his head and it looks so comfortable that David rests his chin on Iker’s shoulder. Under usual circumstances, Iker would have stiffened, but he’s seemingly relaxed tonight. He doesn’t budge, although he takes a drink of his beer too. 

“Porn doesn’t do it for me,” Iker says with a shrug. 

David remembers conversations like this, days when they would lay, heads together and beer in hand, talking about everything until their throats were sore and voices hoarse. They were young then, with barely a care in the world, and nothing mattered except that they had each other. He thinks it was fate that brought him to Iker that day in the park, but he’s never questioned it because David’s never questioned a thing in his life. Either he has what he wants or he grabs what he doesn’t have. He supposes it never really mattered because he’s always had Iker and that’s the only thing he’s ever really wanted. 

Sometimes he misses those days, when they could just be boys and do what it was that boys did—race cars when Mama and Papa weren’t looking, get wasted at clubs, take women out and sleep with them and then sneak back out to the park so they could tell each other details. David feels like his limbs have shrunk since then, he doesn’t feel that same omnipotent strength anymore, doesn’t feel like his arms and legs could stretch so far that they could touch the sky. 

“Nothing does it for you,” David says with a yawn. He doesn’t move his chin. “You need to get laid.”

David watches the screen for a few moments, but he has no idea what’s on and, he realizes, he doesn’t care that much either. Instead, he turns so that his nose is brushing Iker’s hair. 

“So do I, in fact.”

David can’t see Iker roll his eyes, but he can feel it. 

“The twins weren’t enough for you?” the other man asks dryly. 

David wrinkles his face and it only occurs to him after a moment what Iker’s talking about. He shakes his head and buries it closer to Iker’s hair. The hair is soft and brown, but the feathery light edges tickle David’s nose and he scrunches it. 

“They weren’t twins,” he says. “They just looked remarkably similar.” 

“How were the clones, then?” Iker’s tone doesn’t change.

“Boring,” David replies. “Once you’ve slept with one blonde, you’ve slept with all of them.” 

Iker snorts and turns the programming to another channel. What had been a movie changes to an old football match. He relaxes further and even David turns his head slightly to see what’s on. It’s a team in white versus a team in red and black stripes. 

“Madrid and Milan?” he says, voice half-muffled into Iker’s shoulder. 

“Champions League,” Iker nods. 

They watch for a while in silence, breathing in tandem, and cursing under their breaths when a player misses a shot or stumbles on his feet. David doesn’t remember the last time he watched a match either, although he’s almost certain it was with Iker. It’s always Real Madrid, because Iker doesn’t seem to care about any other team. David had grown fond of them, Iker being rather persuasive, but he had always had a bit of a burning love for Manchester United. They were at odds most of the time, mostly because Iker didn’t give a fuck about the Premier League, and David could only listen to the other man wax poetic about morbo for so long before he had the urge to cover his best friend’s mouth with his hand. 

“I always thought I was going to grow up to be a football player,” David remarks after a while. Iker snorts again. 

“Yes, why be a prince when you can be a football player?” Iker drawls. 

“Less paperwork,” David decides. He tries not to laugh at the look Iker gives him, one that is synonymous with _and what paperwork do you do, exactly?_ “If I was a football player, you would have a lot more fun.” 

“If you were a football player, I wouldn’t know you,” Iker answers, simply. 

That makes David frown. He doesn’t like to think of that; a life without Iker. The other man has simply been a fixture in his world since they met. His parents had grown so tired of it that they had eventually just offered him an official position at the palace. 

“I think it’s funny that you think you would be less likely to be friends with a football player than with a King,” David says. 

“I think it’s funny that you don’t think our friendship was pure luck.” 

David can feel his lightheartedness draining and it frustrates him, internally. He frowns again and shifts so that his nose is digging into Iker’s neck. His leg is pulled up to his body, his entire being fit in close to Iker’s side. The other man shifts uncomfortably, but David seems to want him to suffer for his pessimism. 

“It wasn’t,” David said. 

“What wasn’t?” 

“A fluke. Our friendship.” 

Iker turns his head slightly, curiously, but shrugs in the end. 

“I mean it.” 

“So what was it, fate?” 

It’s David’s turn to shrug.

“You don’t believe in fate?” 

Iker rolls his eyes and presses his hand to David’s face so as to distance it from his being. 

“I believe in reality, Dave.” 

It’s about as depressing a diagnosis as David has heard, but just then the Frenchman—Benzema, David thinks his name is—scores for Madrid and Iker lets out a shout of approval. He rises from his seat, letting David fall back a little, and lifts his arm excitedly.

“Fuck yes, that’s what I’m talking about!” 

He’s still in his suit jacket, the edges stiff under starch, and it looks completely awkward, an uncomfortable juxtaposition between his actions and reality. His clothing mutes his own movements, David thinks, and he’s finally too relaxed to let Iker be anything but. He reaches forward and grasps at Iker’s collar as the other man sits down. Iker’s eyes flicker over, confused, but David doesn’t stop to explain. He tugs harder at Iker’s collar, slides a hand under one shoulder and pushes it off. 

“You’re making me uncomfortable,” David mutters and nudges Iker’s side with his toe. “Take it off.” 

An expression crosses Iker’s face that David can’t quite catch, but the other man obeys, shrugs one shoulder out of his uniform jacket and then the other. David reaches over and grabs it, throws it across the room before Iker can protest. 

“Better,” he grins, just before the corner of his lips turn down into a faint frown again. “But there’s still something missing.”

He sticks out his tongue, examining his friend top to bottom. Iker’s body is sturdy, he holds himself straight as though he doesn’t know any other way of doing it. His tie hangs down to suit pants belted in with dark leather. Everything makes David’s skin crawl with discomfort. He wants to undress Iker and shove him into a sweatshirt and sweatpants. He wants to shrug out of his own clothes and lay on the couch in boxers and a t-shirt. He just wants to be able to _breathe_ again and help Iker breathe in the process. 

He decides momentarily and reaches toward Iker before he realizes what he’s doing. Iker freezes, but sits still for David. He works on Iker’s tie first, tugs on the knot and slides it forward until it hangs loose around Iker’s neck. Iker seems to be breathing shallower, but David barely notices. He pulls the tie even looser until he can pull it up and over Iker’s head. Iker blinks. David catches his eyes and is distracted for a second, thinks it’s different watching them from up close, but can’t think of why.

“Can you breathe?” David asks quietly. He takes in Iker’s face, eyes trace over its contours before he can stop them. David blinks and Iker shakes his head.

“Not really,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” 

David finds it harder to swallow, but he reaches forward anyway, slides his thumb under Iker’s collar and flicks open the top button. Iker takes in a breath and David thinks, his own head is swimming, it’s a bit warmer than before, Iker’s probably suffocating. He slides another finger under the second button and slides it out.

The game plays in the background, but it’s become background noise at some point, static sounds and flickering images that neither of them can see because they’re focused on one another. David doesn’t know how his hand brushes Iker’s collarbone, but it does. Iker can’t seem to stop staring at him and suddenly David can’t seem to move at all.

 

It happens like that, within the blink of an eye. Suddenly David can’t breathe, a tight, twist in his stomach, a feeling arched inside his chest. He’s flicking open buttons, one after another, going down Iker’s torso. Iker’s wearing a shirt underneath. It doesn’t disappoint him, not per se, but he can feel his curiosity intensify, the need to rid Iker of it the strongest impulse he’s had in ages. 

David can’t seem to stop and Iker doesn’t seem to want him to. He reaches the bottom and pushes Iker’s shirt off his shoulders, rests his hand at the top, on bare skin, makes contact and that’s suddenly when it changes.

Iker is pushing him back, bearing down on him on the cushions and David doesn’t know how to tell him to stop, doesn’t really know if he even wants him to. He finds the back of his head melding into the cushions, finds Iker’s hands on either side of his chest, finds his hands curling up into Iker’s neck automatically. 

David feels panic bubbling in his stomach, a dozen sounds and sirens making his head spin, or maybe it’s Iker’s warmth, maybe it’s the fact that his best fucking friend is pinning him down with his weight. Iker looks down at him with intense, sharp brown eyes, clouded over, and David’s never seen him like this before, so full of desire. 

It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot he doesn’t know what to do with it, almost moans for the need to feel Iker when he reaches up and Iker leans down and their lips come crashing together. Immediately his fingers curl into Iker’s neck, pressing down on the skin, nails digging in to bring him closer. Iker’s knee parts his legs, his hands pinning David down harder into the cushions, and it’s such a fucking different sensation, feeling the heavy, hard planes of a man bearing down on him, no soft curves or flesh to press his own hands into.

Iker isn’t gentle with him and David doesn’t fucking want him to be. Their lips meet and break, meet and break, Iker’s teeth nip at swollen, pink skin and David can’t help the groan that escapes. Iker’s mouth presses down onto his own, David slants his up, opens his mouth and Iker’s tongue finds its way in. They kiss hot, messy, almost violent with an overwhelming need to be fast about it. 

David feels it building in his chest, the need, it almost blinds him, nearly suffocates him with lust and fuck, he doesn’t think he’s felt this way ever, it’s making him heady and relentless in how he’s attacking Iker. Their bodies arch into each other, David’s free hand finally finding its way under the helm of Iker’s undershirt, untucking it from his tightening pants and scraping a hand up Iker’s firm abdomen. David can feel Iker shudder, can hear him take a deep breath in his mouth, so he drags his hand up, lifts up into Iker until Iker has no choice but to break the kiss and hiss for air. 

David’s bereft of it too, he can feel his lungs collapsing in on themselves. He’s rasping, but he wants more, his body’s craving it. 

“Fuck,” he lets out and Iker’s too busy kissing down the side of his throat to reply. He twists his hands into Iker’s hair, tugs on it a little, stretches his body out so that Iker can settle in more. He’s going by instinct, by what feels good, doesn’t stop to think because he doesn’t have room to. 

Iker attacks viciously, teeth and lips making pink bruises flower on pale skin within seconds and David lets out little breaths, sounds he didn’t know existed. Iker’s mouth reaches the top of his shirt, lips brush the fabric there and David thinks he’s going to take it between his teeth and rip through it for a second, kind of fucking hopes he will because that would be so fucking hot.

He doesn’t, but David doesn’t have room to be disappointed. Instead, Iker starts kissing his way back up, his hands creeping up David’s side, palm pressing firm into tight muscles. 

David’s hand find the smooth skin at Iker’s back. He presses down, presses Iker’s body closer to his, traps him there until neither of them can breathe for the proximity. 

“What are you doing?” Iker breathes. His face is hot, tinged pink. David doesn’t know, so he shakes his head.

“I don’t know.”

He presses his mouth to the corner of Iker’s, slants their mouths together until they’re kissing again, hard and without break, breaths catching in their throats until they’re choking from it. David is feeling everything now, the unwinding in his chest, the sparks of electricity catching through his limbs, the heat from Iker’s body mixing with his own. He tilts his head back and Iker follows.

There’s no room for breathing, but less thinking and David’s head is spinning from pleasure, from something that he’s been missing for so long. 

It hits him like a pang, a sharp pain in his gut. He lets himself think, for just a second, and it’s a second too long because he doubts himself instantly. He thinks maybe it isn’t Iker, he thinks maybe it’s because he hasn’t let his body be taken or take someone in so long, when he’s used to the opposite. He thinks, maybe it has nothing to do with _Iker_ and then, he thinks, Iker doesn’t fucking deserve _that_ , although why that should matter, he doesn’t know.

“Fuck,” David gasps and suddenly there’s a hand between his chest and Iker’s. Iker breaks their kiss and pulls back, eyes foggy and brain sluggishly catching up to the rest of him. “Fuck, what are we doing?” 

“What are we—” Iker says, trying to catch his breath. The words come out in little pants. David is acutely aware of Iker’s hand up his shirt, the other on his chest. “What do you mean what are we doing?”

“We can’t,” David gasps, trying to catch his breath as well. This is it, the point where he starts to panic. He tries to untangle himself from Iker in a mad dash, not thinking his actions through, not noticing the way Iker’s eyes widen and then harden. “I can’t—we can’t—and fuck, and you—”

“I what, David?” Iker says, slowly. He sits back on his heels now, wipes his swollen mouth on the back of his hands. His hair is half sticking up, half plastered to the side of his face from sweat. He’s flushed, he’s clearly turned on, he’s starting to get angry.

David swallows, because he’s never found another person so attractive. 

“Fuck, I’m not gay, Iker,” David says, weakly.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

It is exactly the wrong fucking thing to say. 

He knows it before he says it.

He knows it when he says it.

He knows it after he says it because the look of fury and disgust he sees in Iker’s face is unlike any expression he’s ever seen before. It makes his heart stop in his throat, stutter to a complete, shocking halt. 

“You’re not gay,” Iker says slowly, angrily.

David shakes his head, throat dry. 

“Of course you’re not,” Iker laughs, but there’s no mirth to his voice. His eyes flash dangerously. “You’ve never been gay, David, have you? You weren’t gay when we were kids and you’d fucking kiss me for fun. You weren’t gay when we were teenagers and you’d leave your girlfriend to spend the night with me. _When we’d sleep together in nothing but our underwear._ ” 

Iker picks himself off David and David rises slowly to a sitting position. He’s cowed, paralyzed by the sense that he’s committed a grave, unfixable error. 

“You weren’t gay the night your parents almost divorced. The night you drank so much I fucking sat with you on the floor of the bathroom. You weren’t gay when you pushed me against the door and blew me.” 

David’s eyes widen, there’s a sledgehammer ramming into his gut. He has flickers of brokwn memories he didn’t know he had. He opens his mouth, but Iker’s not done. 

“You definitely weren’t gay a minute ago when you had your hand up my shirt and your tongue down my throat,” Iker growls. He looks at David in disgust and moves off the couch. David reaches forward for him but stops himself, heart hammering in his chest. He feels it somewhere near his ribcage, the guilt. “You’ve never been _gay_ , David, you’ve always been in the fucking closet and I’m tired as shit of it.”

David finds his voice and then loses it as soon as Iker settles him with a withering look.

“If you’re not gay, then tell your dick that.” 

David doesn’t have to look down to know what he means, although that’s as effective a method as any to kill it. 

“Iker, I—”

“Whatever. The guest room’s across the hall. It has everything you could possibly need, _your highness_. I’m going to sleep. I’ll go back to work for you in the morning.” 

Iker slams his fist into the wall in anger on his way out. He isn’t subtle about it or quiet. He’s frustrated and fucking pissed and somewhere inside, David doesn’t blame him.

But somewhere outside, David lets out a stream of curses under his breath and buries his face in the palms of his hands. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out. He feels unsettled, feels uncertain, feels like Iker’s pissed at him for something he hasn’t even thought about, until just now. Or maybe he has and he’s spent all of these years trying to ignore it. “Fuck.”

 

He doesn’t sleep well that night. The couch, while soft, is nothing like a bed and he doesn’t bother moving to the guest room even after Iker’s slammed the door shut to his own. David’s eyes keep fluttering open, the white ceiling burning into the front and back of his retinas. He tries to blink away the expression on Iker’s face, the obvious disgust and not-so-obvious hurt. It washes brightly in the dark, the frown at the edges of pink lips, hair plastered to the side of his head, eyes clouded, half in lust and half in muted wound. 

David presses his palms to his eyes, but the images turn to moments before, a body close against his own, a body whose physiology, whose structure is completely different from the expected. He can’t close his eyes without feeling Iker on top of him, without remembering how fucking turned on he was, and he thinks it’s too complicated in a situation that is already complicated enough.

He doesn’t want to lose his best friend, but he also doesn’t want to lose everything he’s worked for, because of a moment of confusion, a moment of vulnerability that he’s barely sure existed in the first place. 

David rolls around on the couch until he falls off and even then, it’s easier to sprawl on the ground, limbs splayed around him, than to do anything about moving and becoming comfortable. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve comfort anyway. 

By the time the room is lightening with the morning’s early sun and Iker comes in with lightly padding footsteps, David’s only just fallen asleep within the last half an hour. He hears Iker’s movement anyway and he blearily opens his eyes. A pounding starts at the corner of his temple and he has to blink rapidly at the shape of the other man staring strangely at him from across the room. 

“What are you doing?” Iker asks cautiously.

David isn’t in enough of a proper state to decipher whether or not there’s any residual anger in his voice. 

“Sleeping,” David croaks. He covers his face with his hand. “Trying to sleep.”

“Were you out here the entire night?” Iker asks uncomfortably. 

“Yes. Well I was on the couch at some point,” David answers. He finds that speaking too much catalyzes the headache that’s threatening to take over his head. He tries to speak without moving his mouth. “But then.”

“You fell off,” Iker sighs.

“Yes.”

“You move around too much,” the other man says in, what David is sure is exasperation. “Come on, get off the ground.”

Iker reaches a hand forward and David stares at it blankly before taking it and letting himself be pulled to his feet.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not really.” 

Iker frowns and runs a hand through his hair.

“You should have slept in the guest room.”

David shrugs, not wanting to push it further. 

“I have to go finish work, but you can stay,” Iker says. His voice seems softer, somehow. David isn’t naïve enough to think he’s been forgiven, but maybe Iker’s willing to give him another chance at not being a dick. “Get some rest, you need it.”

David presses his palms to his eyes again, but shakes his head.

“I can’t. I—er. I have a meeting.” 

Iker blinks as a look of confusion crosses his face.

“I didn’t schedule you for anything today.” 

“I know,” David smiles weakly. He rubs a hand into his hair, stretches his arms above him a little, and tries not to think about how painfully tired he is. “I actually set this one up myself.” 

“With who?” Iker’s surprise isn’t really surprising to David, so he isn’t offended. He’s earned as much skepticism as anyone gives him.

“Raúl,” David says, quietly. 

Iker’s eyes widen in surprise. He looks a bit disoriented, or maybe that’s just how David feels and he’s projecting. 

“What does Raúl—is there something new—”

“It’s nothing,” David says, shaking his head. “Just a few reports, that’s all.” 

Iker looks unsure. He seems like he’s teetering on his feet and the worry is more than apparent. It occurs to David, for the first time, that maybe Iker didn’t get any sleep last night either. 

“Don’t worry so much, Iker,” David says with a light look. He knows he shouldn’t, not after the night before, but he cups Iker’s cheek, presses a kiss to his face. “I know you don’t believe me, but everything is under control.”

Iker stiffens at the touch, tries not to visibly cringe, although David would be able to tell from a mile away. That’s just simply how long they’ve known one another. David lets his hand drop, backs away slightly and Iker’s breathing relaxes. It feels like everything’s ruined, but it’s his fault anyway, so David doesn’t have room to complain. 

“Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you?” Iker asks, rubbing a hand through his hair uncertainly. It’s funny, a little, like a father letting his child go for the first time, only David is older than Iker and he should never have needed the strict guidance in the first place. He shakes his head in response. 

“I’m not a child,” he says. Iker still looks uncertain, but he doesn’t protest. David, for his part, is more than considerate in leaving as fast as he can. 

He’s out of the living room and down the connecting hall to the top of the stairs when he stops. 

“Hey, Iker?” 

It takes a moment, but Iker comes to the open doorway at the edge of living room and looks out. 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re okay, right?” David offers the same, meek, sheepish smile he’s had on hand since he was five years old. If Iker was expecting anything else, David doesn’t know, but he thinks Iker looks different somehow—resigned or disappointed or possibly both.

“Yes, your highness,” Iker says, softly. “We’re okay.”

And it’s because of that answer itself that David knows they’re not.


	19. David; Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VII. David; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 5,385  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Fernando Torres/Olalla Dominguez, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres (hints), David Beckham/Iker Casillas (hints)  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-16 for language  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** This is the last chapter I have written! I'm not promising anything, but I hope to write more over this summer. If I can finish this fic by summer's end, I'll be really happy. This baby has been a long journey and I think she deserves a proper ending. I'd love your encouragement here or on LJ to spur me on!

  


**VII. David**   
_when fools can be kings_   


The sun is bright in the most misleading way possible. It’s almost bitter cold outside, the rays of light leading the well-paved streets, but doing little else. David shrugs his hood over the top of his head and pulls his jacket tighter around him. He’s so exhausted he can feel it in his bones, a weariness that makes it hard for him to lift one foot, much less the other. Callejón isn’t guarding the gate this time, a bald man with tattoos is, and he simply glares at David as he shuffles past, but that’s just as well. He doesn’t think he has any words left in him, let alone pleasant ones.

He crosses the streets with relative ease, stopping only once, when he’s bumped shoulders with a thin man with long hair. They look at each other for a brief second, blue eyes against brown, and David thinks he sees recognition or something similar flicker in them, before he’s pushing past quickly. It’s a necessity that he isn’t recognized or else he’ll never be let out again. More than enough people want him dethroned or even dead, so it’s for his own protection, but David doesn’t think he’ll ever feel more suffocated than he feels right now. 

When he passes into the grounds around the palace again, he winces, because the guard stops him long enough to push his hood off and then there are at least a dozen questions and withering looks until David has to threaten, by a Royal Decree that does not exist and never will, them into secrecy. 

He stumbles onto the lawn just in time for the cathedral bell to sound ten times. He’s halfway to the side entrance that leads to the kitchens—an entrance he often utilized when he was still prince in order to sneak through the palace and return to his room without any attention being called to his person—when a hand grasps around his elbow. 

David yelps and freezes in place, heart shooting up somewhere near his Adam’s apple, before the person hisses, “ _Where have you been?_ ” and “ _You’re so fucking bad at this_.” 

David feels himself being dragged across the lawn hurriedly before he realizes that he isn’t being kidnapped or, at least, if he is, Bojan isn’t going to get him very far. They dart around the corner of the palace anyway, close enough to the kitchen’s entrance that David could still ostensibly carry through with his plan.

“Dave, I’ve been trying to call you all morning,” Bojan hisses as soon as they’re tucked into the shadow of the side of the palace and dense, orange and yellow foliage. “Where the _fuck_ have you been?” 

“I was with Iker,” David says, immediately worried. Bojan looks panicked. His face is a little flushed and he’s trembling in a way that David’s never seen before. He immediately reaches forward and places a hand on Bojan’s shoulder. “Bo, what is it? Is it Fernando? Did something happen?” 

It’s funny what hysteria a panicked look and lack of information can cause, even in the span of seconds. David’s minds flip through endless possibilities, each one worse than the other, until Fernando’s been mutilated in more ways than humanly possibly. He thinks he can’t breathe, there’s a migraine pounding in the corner of his eye and he needs to know that Fernando is okay, he needs to fucking know _now_.

Bojan shakes his head immediately, emphatically.

“Oh god no, fuck. Fernando’s fine,” he says. David’s fears are assuaged only for greater ones to take their place. 

“You’re worrying me, kid,” he says and Bojan must realize then how he looks, because he tries to straighten himself and calm the trembling. David’s less than fooled. 

“It—fuck, they were rumors at first,” Bojan says. “I heard whispers a little before Fer announced his engagement and then we were all so fucking caught up in it, I didn’t think it could pan out—”

“What couldn’t? What happened?”

“I just heard bits of conversations while Hogdson and Guardiola were walking down the hall, something about the Knights falling back in Basque territory and some kind of an attack in Catalonia.” 

David freezes, stunned.

“An attack? What—”

“On the Knights. You were garrisoning the area, right—don’t look at me like that, I know you were. At least one or two guards of them were taken in some kind of a deliberate explosion. I couldn’t catch everything they were saying, but it might have come internally—”

“Internally?” 

“Fuck, I don’t know Dave, I’m just telling you what I heard. But then this morning Raúl was looking for you and then Guti was and I went to the Cathedral and Navas told me he hadn’t seen the Archbishop since yesterday. I think something’s happened.” 

“More than the explosion?” David breathes out. He can feel his heart pressure elevating, blood pumping thick against the walls of his veins as he tries to control how light-headed he feels. He runs a hand over his face, suddenly remembers how tired he is. 

“Something’s going on, I think you need to find Raúl.” 

“Yeah,” David nods. “Thanks, Bo.” 

He turns to move past Bojan and through the kitchens so he can find dress quickly and find the General, when Bojan grabs his wrist.

“David,” Bojan says urgently. David looks into his youngest brother’s eyes. It’s a different kind of panic he sees there, something deeper than just shallow fears of a regiment lost. He can see it spiral out of control there, David thinks, like maybe Bojan thinks that’s what this means too. 

“What?” 

“Be careful,” Bojan says. And then, “Pick who you trust carefully.”

It’s strangely wise advice coming from a teenager, but Bojan’s always been ahead of his years. David looks at his face and kisses the top of his brother’s head. 

“Promise, kiddo,” he says and then he’s gone. 

 

He doesn’t think his head has ever hut this much, a sharp pain tearing the space above his eyebrow and beneath the crest of his forehead. It’s behind his right eye and he has a duller pain near the back of his head. David’s thoughts are jumbled faster than he can process them and he has to lean against his wall and close his eyes, stop to force himself to breathe after he’s quickly washed his face and shrugged out of his jeans and into half-assed military uniform. There are lapels and symbolic pins everywhere and they make his skin itch, he misses civilian-wear almost immediately. 

David doesn’t have time, though. He’s run out of time. 

 

Raúl finds him halfway down the hall. Find is perhaps misleading; truthfully they’re both turning the corner at the same time and suddenly David finds himself sharply colliding into the thin, stronger body of the other man. 

“Your highness!” Raúl manages to maintain his composure as David lets out a frustrated “ _Fuck!_ ” 

“I apologize, I was coming to find you—”

“No need, General,” David says. He rubs his head and thinks he could cry about how it just doesn’t seem to want to survive the day. “We need to talk.”

The General’s eyes flash and he studies David accordingly.

“Did you meet Guti along the way?”

“No,” David says. “Let’s just say I’ve heard rumors.”

“We tried reaching you, your highness,” Raúl says. “We tried sending a servant in to wake you up, but he found your room empty. No one knew where you were, Prince Bojan said he would call you—”

“I couldn’t sleep,” David interrupts. “Bad timing, I know. I went for a walk and left my phone behind.” 

There’s a plethora of problems in his story—namely why he would walk anywhere that wasn’t within contactable difference, why someone would not have gone with him, why guards or other servants would not have seen him nor known his whereabouts in the circumstances. Raúl doesn’t question, though, and David’s grateful for it. There are more pressing issues at hand. 

“Can we move into the conference room?” David asks. 

Raúl hesitates. 

“Your highness, would you mind if—”

“If what?” 

“If we met elsewhere.” 

David looks confused, but he nods. 

“That’s fine. Where is Guti—”

“No, your highness.” Raúl looks a bit nervous this time. “Just the two of us.” 

David’s eyes narrow and he stares at Raúl in what is, perhaps, the most careful and studying manner of his life. He trusts the General possibly more than anyone in his life, barring Iker, so he’s not as hesitant as he is curious. 

“Okay,” David nods. He tries to think of a safe place and can only come up with one. “How about Iker’s office?”

“That sounds perfect, your highness.” 

David quickly moves through the winding hallways and stairs, knowing the path to Iker’s office by heart. When they reach the door, it’s obvious that Iker hasn’t come in yet. It makes David frown, but he pushes the thought from his mind. The door is locked, but David has a spare key tucked into his suit. He twists it in the lock and lets both of them in. The lights are turned off, so David makes sure to flip them on before closing the door behind them. He eyes the curtains, considers opening them, but Raúl shakes his head and David leaves it as is. 

“Raúl,” David says as he takes a seat on one of Iker’s plush chairs. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Raúl sighs deeply, lets his shoulders slump for half a second before straightening them. He seems to consider whether or not to sit down next to David and then decides against it. He paces instead. 

“We were hit on two fronts, your highness. A fight broke out among the Basques. The Knights were able to quell most of it, but sustained injuries and it’s only a matter of time until they regroup.” 

“There’s a front there, right?” David asks.

Raúl looks at him in surprise. 

“A front?” 

“Rebel movement,” David says. “I know there are a few groups, but I’m not sure whether they’re organized or not. There’s one based close by and at least one other in either Basque or Catalonia. We just weren’t sure where. I had always assumed the Basques, though.”

Raúl looks stunned and he blinks rapidly before nodding slowly.

“Why the Basques, your highness? If you don’t mind me asking?”

David shrugs. He rolls his shoulders and tries to ease some tension out. It doesn’t really help, but the motion is somewhat soothing so he continues. 

“Everything in the Basque region, from what you and Guti have told me, has been slower and more calculated. We’ve been fighting in Catalonia for years and it’s always small bursts, nothing overwhelming or systematic,” David licks his lips and frowns. “I mean I’m no expert, General, but it seems to me like that would imply Catalonia is less of an organized resistance and more individual spots?” 

Raúl nods again.

“That’s my train of thinking as well.” The General sighs and walks to the window. He pushes the curtain to the side, a little, and looks out into the bright day. “We know the Portuguese have their hand in one of the movements, but there are so many small fronts it could be any of them. The Portuguese government isn’t willing to negotiate with us, not while we’re using force to restrict the Basques and Catalonians.”

“We have no choice—”

“That doesn’t matter to them,” Raúl says, shaking his head. “They want to keep ties with us, but they’re a burgeoning democracy and both Basques and Catalonians have been wanting democracy or some measure of self-autonomy for years. Supporting us in restraining them would not be good showing for the Portuguese leaders, even if we have no choice and they want to maintain relations with us.” 

“Is the attack in Catalonia related to the uprising in Basque region?” David asks uncertainly.

“I can’t say for sure, your highness. I’m still trying to piece together what happened in Catalonia. Most of the Knights had to retreat to a nearby region, at least to regather before restationing around the region. It’s more volatile than ever, but I can only spare so many men to enforce harsher punishment there when the Basques require more attention overall.”

David’s frown deepens. There are too many thoughts in his head and this information is difficult to process without attempting to think three or four steps ahead. 

“There is one thing Guti mentioned to me though,” Raúl hesitates. 

David looks up questioningly. 

“A man by the name of José Mourinho. Guti didn’t say much and it was ah, a bit under the influence, but I want to say he is the leader of the faction that is being funded by the Portuguese.”

“What does he want?”

“Democracy, maybe. Certainly not a military regime,” Raúl frowns. “What is clear is that he doesn’t want the current monarchy in charge anymore. I don’t know what he plans to replace it with, but he seems to be leading an intelligent and concerted effort.”

“Have we heard from him yet?” 

“I haven’t wanted to investigate until I received your consent, especially since all I’ve heard are whispers,” the General shakes his head and lets the curtain fall closed. “But, if what I hear about him is true, I fear his front more than the others.”

“Why is that?”

When Raúl retreats from the window, it looks as though he’s aged at least a decade, maybe more. He has stress lines on his forehead, worry lines near his eyes. His hair is a bit matted, which David doesn’t think he’s ever seen with the other man. 

“I’m almost positive he would come to the capital city and the palace and take what’s yours, your highness.” 

David looks at Raúl and sees how serious he is. 

“The other groups, they would meet us on the field. But José Mourinho?” Raúl sighs again and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think he would wait and I don’t think would be happy until the palace was taken.”

David shakes his head and laughs. He covers his face with his hands. 

“Say what you mean, General. You don’t mean the palace.”

Raúl doesn’t answer for a full minute. Then, finally, he, too, closes his eyes. His shoulders sag. 

“You’re right, David,” Raúl says. He uses David’s first name and that’s all David needs to hear. “I don’t mean the palace. I mean you.”

**[ part e. the archbishop ]**

He closes his eyes, prayer to the tip of dried, cracked lips. He mutters words in his head, lets them lodge deep in his throat, and he smiles, from sheer hypocrisy and disbelief in God that stills his heart and then helps it beat again. The Archbishop opens his eyes and crosses himself. It’s a funny sign, the cross, he thinks. It’s an intersection, as though the marking of faith and those who don’t believe. It’s funny, he thinks, because, once upon a time, he used to believe, but that was long before he decided he hated religion, he hated the hypocrisy that King and God stood for. He doesn’t like to remember those days, when his father left his mother for a whore and his mother died from a disease even God couldn’t cure. He remembers walking the streets until his feet bled and when the church took him in, they did so without knowing how angry he was.

It doesn’t matter now, the Archbishop thinks. If there is an intersection between disbelievers and the power of King and God, then it is a crux that he wants for himself. The powerless becomes the powerful, the Archbishop thinks, and he smiles at the alter, fondly, almost cruelly, because the irony of it all warms the space where his heart should be.

 

He walks the stairs down from the Cathedral, leaves the church behind because it’s almost served his entire purpose. His habit drags against stone, his soft shoes barely making a sound as he slips out. No one questions Archbishop Roy Hodgson because he has long since made it a rule. He has taken power where, previously, there had been none and he’s a genius for it, not something he nor anyone can deny. The previous King and Queen had been putty in his hands and King David was turning out to be a bigger joke than even he had anticipated. It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, but it helped the Archbishop sleep well at night anyway. 

He turns the corner, crosses over the grounds, and up through an alleyway that leads behind the complex the Knights are housed in and the horse stables behind them. The Archbishop lifts the hem of his habit gently, makes sure not to get grass stains or hay on it. He crosses the entire of the building and the entirely of the stalls until he gets to a closed area. 

Long ago, when the previous Queen and King had been alive, there had been a great fire that had taken an entire complex that the families of the Knights had stayed in. The fire had never been an accident, but that was an entirely different matter that even the Archbishop had no hands in. The area had been secured off, the Knights’ families moved far away from the palace grounds, recompense given when lives could not be revived. The building stands alienated from the rest of the area now, stones charred and crumbling around it, yellow police tape making sure no one enters inside. 

Archbishop Hodgson inserts a rusted key into the front door and pushes it open. Ash and dust collect on the ground and the door scrapes painfully open. 

He smiles to see a familiar face at the end of a passage that is only lit by sunshine streaming in through holes in the slanted roof. 

A man dressed in a Knights uniform stands above another figure, one that is crumpled to the ground and lies, seemingly, unconscious. The Knight fidgets a little, but otherwise shows no other emotion.

“Have you been standing guard all night?” the Archbishop asks, closing the door behind him. 

“Cole left earlier,” the bald-headed man says. He straightens as the Archbishop approaches. The priest looks down at the prone figure on the floor. It’s a young man, dark hair flopping over the front of his head. He’s in dirty clothes, there’s rips everywhere, and spots of blood at the knees and elbows. He’s clearly unconscious and is having trouble breathing.

“Did you break his ribs, Victor?” Archbishop Hodgson frowns.

“No,” Victor grunts. He toes the prone figure and then steps back in disgust. “He was like this when I took over guard duty. Cole.” 

Archbishop Hodgson tuts and bends down at the figure.

“I’ve always told Ashley he needs to control that temper of his.” He touches the young man’s head. It’s cold and clammy. The young man has a fever or is starving or, possibly, both. There’s a name tag hanging on his lapel. 

“And they know he’s missing?” Archbishop Hodgson looks up at Victor. 

Victor nods sharply. 

“We took him weeks ago. He hasn’t been in contact since, they have to know he’s gone by now.”

“And why should they think it was the King?” 

Victor smiles faintly. 

“Kun found one of their stations. Cole and Evra are readying to lead a group in. They won’t be gentle.” 

“And no one will know the difference,” the Archbishop says. He smiles a little and it makes his face twist in a way that distorts it even further. 

“As far as they know, it will have been sanctioned by the King. And our men will be back before anyone realizes they’re gone.” 

“Very good,” the Archbishop’s twisted smile broadens. 

“And then we have the note ready to send.” 

Archbishop Hodgson nods slowly. He stands even slower, stretches a little bit as he does so, and closes his eyes to pray and cross himself again. When he opens his eyes, he seems to be staring at the man lying on the ground.

“God bless your soul, David Silva,” the Archbishop says. “Because you will be the key to his destruction.”

Victor grins, light falling slanting onto all three of them.

“Amen.”


	20. Sergio; Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VIII. Sergio; **Part I**_  
>  **Word Count:** 4,807  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas (mentions)  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13 for innuendo  & language  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So starts the new chapters. I hope you first-time readers are enjoying this fic! It's a long ride and there's plenty more to come. :)

**VIII. Sergio**  
 _come ride with me_  


Sergio wakes up with sun slanting into his eyes. He squints from under thin covers, blearily considers looking out into the real world, and then promptly forces them shut. He buries his head under his pillow and pulls his blankets tighter around his shoulders. He thinks today is the day; the day that he will not leave his bed, the day he will choose to sleep until the sun disappears behind hills and then sleep some more that day is today. It’s a decision he takes with pride and, considering how his body is aching, relief. He even manages to smile into his arm. He pulls his legs up under him and nuzzles his pillow and happily falls back asleep.

It lasts approximately five minutes. What wakes him isn’t the noise or the stomping or even the sound of the phone ringing, but the smell of food, strong and thick, crawling to him even under the protection of goose feather pillows.

It takes him approximately three minutes to realize that he doesn’t recognize any of these things—the noise or the stomping, the phone ringing or, especially, the smell of food. His apartment is small, cold, devoid of human life and, most particularly, things to eat. 

Sergio opens his eyes and blinks blearily, confused. 

It isn’t until there’s a light knock on his door that he turns over to his side and decides to lower his blanket enough to creep his eyes out. He’s in a room that isn’t his in a house that isn’t his. He can’t remember getting here, but there isn’t a body next to him, or any lingering warmth to signal a missing person, so, presumably, he isn’t here because he’s someone’s one-night stand either. 

The person knocks on the door again and Sergio blinks.

“Yes?”

“It’s noon,” comes an annoyingly familiar voice. “Are you planning on ever waking up?”

Sergio considers this. Then he shakes his head.

“No.”

He buries his head back into the pillows and sheets again.

Xabi lets him have his peace for approximately thirty seconds before the door opens and there’s a man bent on torturing him taking the pillow away from his head and thrusting open curtains to let in sunlight that’s about as cruel an ancient torturing device as any that Sergio has seen or experienced. 

“Noooooooooooooooooooo,” he manages to whine like the petulant seven year old he feels like. 

“I have no sympathy,” Xabi says. 

“Of course you don’t, you’d have to have a heart to have sympathy,” Sergio grumbles, burying his face into the sheet.

“I hear they’re artificially manufacturing those now,” Xabi replies matter-of-factly. “I’ll buy one on the way to lunch, but I need you out of bed right now.”

Sergio groans into the bed once more before he gives up struggling with the older man. He sighs and turns his body, defeated as he is, so that he can at least blearily glare up at that ginger beard. 

“Are you going to feed me?” Sergio asks warily. 

“If I must,” is Xabi’s reply. 

Sergio knows that Xabi doesn’t mean it in that way, but even in his hung over state of mind, guilt flickers across his conscience. A frown presses to his lips immediately and he parts them to say something to the effect of _You don’t have to provide for me, I can take care of myself--_ but Xabi knows him too well.

“Sergio? Shut up.” Xabi doesn’t allow for any kind of negative response. “Steven and I are waiting downstairs, meet us in a half an hour.”

He leaves as promptly as he came, although Sergio is still frowning at his words. He’s overly sensitive to a fault and he knows this, but it’s a defense mechanism born of a spirit greater than his body. His parents exhausted of it years ago, but his father was never anything less than proud of him. Sergio remembers days when he would be taken onto his papa’s knee, guitar laying across both of their laps and the lovely man would chuckle. 

_“You’re like your abuela, you know that?” his father would say._

_Sergio, being small and not of the proper age nor mind to protest such coddling treatment, would wrinkle his nose, his entire face, his large, expressive eyes squinted into confusion and happiness because he always knew what was coming next._

_“Not like abuelo, Papa?”_

_“No, Sergio,” his father would smile. “Everyone wants their son to be like their abuelo, yes? But your abuelo was a simple man. It’s your abuela who had the free spirit. That fierce independence that carried her through the war.”_

_“Which war?” Sergio would ask, leaning back into his father’s large and comforting shoulders._

_“The war for independence, nene,” his father would say. “The King and his Knights won, but your abuela fought until the bitter end. There wasn’t a woman braver or fiercer or more beautiful.”_

_“Did she die in the war, Papa?” Sergio would ask, eyes widening. It was at this part of the story always, that he would feel his heart speed up, worry starting to create a knot in between small shoulders. His father would chuckle and place a hand just below, ease the knot until it was smooth in his little one._

_“Of course not, nene. She was saved by your abuelo,” his father would smile. “Your abuelo was one of them, you know.”_

_“One of who?”_

_“The Knights,” Sergio’s father would say with a small, hidden smile. “He was a Knight and his job was to capture your abuela.”_

_“And did he?” Sergio’s eyes, widened to a fault, would flicker with anticipation. Each time he heard the story it would be the same; it wasn’t just the story, it was his abuela, his abuelo, the breathlessness he felt for both of them even though he knew, each time, how it would end._

_“He did, Sergio,” his father would say. “He captured her and put her in a camp with the others and they were to be killed.”_

_“What happened, Papa?” Sergio would ask, small hands clinging to strong arms. “What happened to abuela?”_

_“Shhh, mijo,” Sergio’s father would smooth his hair and press kisses into it. “Your abuela, she was just like you. She couldn’t sit still, her dreams were too big, her spirit was larger than her body. They couldn’t hold her, she wouldn’t let them. Standing still, being reliant on someone else, that would have killed her.”_

_“So what happened?”_

_“She challenged your abuelo to a duel. None of the Knights could believe it—a woman dueling a trained man! They laughed at her. But your abuelo saw how determined she was and took pity on her. He said, ‘We are going to kill her anyway, why not give her a chance?’ Well do you know what the Knights did not know, Sergio?”_

_“Abuela’s father taught her how to fight,” Sergio’s small face would always light up, bright as the sun._

_“That’s right. Her papa taught her to fight. And she was strong and fierce. When your abuelo fought her, he did not take her seriously. She took him stroke for stroke and by the end, had him at the end of her sword. The other Knights leapt forward to stop her, maybe even kill her, but your abuelo stopped them.” Sergio’s father would always stop here, always pause at the best part to let his hand tickle up Sergio’s side. Sergio would crumple into himself, face collapsing with laughter and his father wouldn’t stop until Sergio was nearly crying, until he was so spent with laughter that only kisses flowered to his head and neck could calm him._

_Once calm, Sergio would breathe out, “Why did he stop them? Why did abuelo not kill abuela?”_

_“Because, Sergio,” his father would say. “He saw how tall and proud she stood. He saw the hot, Andalucían blood and he knew then.”_

_“Knew what, Papa?”_

_“That he loved her.” Sergio’s father would smile and start to strum at his guitar. “Your abuelo knew then that he loved her.”_

It sounds so simple in retrospect, a story framed in bright hues of sepia. Sergio’s abuelo and his abuela and a love that brought them together, bound them together, held them together so strongly that, eventually, they had died within months of each other. There were always stories like that, stories of a man and a woman being so terribly in love that to live without the other was worse than not living at all. Sergio doesn’t remember his abuelo that well. He was two or three when he passed, but he remembers the stories, thinks he can remember his abuelo kissing his abuela on the cheek, even in their old age, if he tries hard enough. His abuelo had died months after his abuela. His father tells him that he had known the entire time, that, somehow, they had all known. 

It’s almost a fairytale, something Sergio likes to pretend to believe in, although he knows that, at the end of the day, the reality is more of a lie than the story itself. It’s not that Sergio doesn’t believe in love, it’s just that he doesn’t believe in happy endings.

He lets himself into the guest shower, strips out of the thin t-shirt and loose pants that Xabi had apparently lent him, and washes his face while in his boxers. The outline of his reflection in the mirror is thinner than usual, although there’s no reason for it because he’s been staying with Xabi for over a week now. Every time he tries to go home, tries to unburden the other man, either he or Steven find an excuse to force him to stay. Sergio’s grateful, but he has a gnawing in the pit of his stomach, the same gnawing he had whenever he went home or called his parents until he stopped visiting and calling altogether. 

He runs a wet hand through his hair and turns toward the mirror. He thinks it’s kind of gross, the way his ribs stick out. He can see the ridges of his spine without even bending over and he can’t imagine the sharp edges of his shoulders and collarbones are pleasant to feel, let alone look at. No wonder he’s had a hard trouble finding someone to sleep with although, truthfully, he hasn’t really been looking. 

Sergio brushes his teeth and splashes water across his face before stripping out of his boxers and stepping into the shower. The shower at his apartment is lukewarm at the best of times, water spurting out in short bursts that are wholly unsatisfying. Xabi’s soap is a bit like a luxury—much like the rest of his stay here—so even though it goes against Sergio’s better judgment and sense of pride, he scrubs his body all over with the fine soap and squirts out a large dollop of shampoo to lather in his hair. 

The hot water feels blissful against his chilled skin. He’s cold, always cold, and there’s rarely anything, barring food or another body, that can warm him up. This comes close, though, and he closes his eyes and leans his forehead onto the cool tiles while the water runs down his ragged body. 

It wasn’t like this before, he thinks. Somewhere along the way, he lost sense of self and gained too much pride and he’s never been able to find the path back. It’s hard, most of the time, isolating himself so that he never has to be a burden on anyone. He’s sure it can be traced back years, possibly to his childhood, maybe to the only man he had ever loved, the one who left without a goodbye, disappeared without a trace. It had fucked him up; he had fucked him up. Iker—Sergio remembers his name, he remembers everything about the other man, to this day he remembers everything they had said, everything they had done, and everything he had felt—hadn’t wanted him and maybe that’s where it had begun. 

His next boyfriend had been worse, had been awful in all of the ways Iker hadn’t been. Sergio doesn’t like remembering him, but the reality of his manipulation, of his emotional and physical abuse, comes back to haunt him sometimes. If he had always felt like a child clinging to Iker, then he had felt nothing more than a cheap piece of ass for the man who followed and the constant verbal insults had left scars even Sergio hadn’t realized the depths of at the time. It made him feel like he couldn’t trust anyone, first of all, but mostly he had forgotten how to trust himself. Five years later and Sergio still doesn’t trust himself to be someone worth wanting. 

Which is what it boiled down to, at the heart of it. Letting himself fall for Fernando had been easy. He had barely had any control over that, the way his stomach had knotted around the prince, about the way he had wanted to touch his hair and his face, the way his days had slowly come to revolve around him and their time together. Falling for Fernando had been as simple as breathing, Sergio had barely realized it until, suddenly, one night, sleeping with a cheap date had barely been enough to get him up let alone do anything else. 

What had been harder was accepting it, letting himself become dependent on another person again, letting his happiness slip through his control and into someone else’s hands. And that had been the entire problem. When Fernando had stopped calling, Sergio’s heart had started breaking and he had promised himself years ago that he would never let it happen again.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. Sergio opens his eyes and stares at the tiles, reaches forward to turn the knob completely to the right until the water is so fucking hot that it’s nearly burning his skin. 

He should have fucking known better, at the heart of it. Falling for a _prince_ had been stupid enough, let alone letting himself believe that they had any fucking chance together. Sergio hadn’t really been surprised by Fernando’s phone call, but it hadn’t stopped it from hurting any less. He can’t count the number of days it’s been because he’s effectively self-medicated through the only means he knows; music and alcohol. He’s had a hangover that’s lasted an entire fucking week, although he doubts that Xabi knows. Xabi’s been too busy with his own politics to notice the way Sergio’s been curling up into himself again.

“Sergio, are you done?” Xabi’s voice comes from outside the hall.

Sergio stares at the shower head, blinks at the streams of water until they run, cool and uncomfortable, into his eyes. He sighs and shakes his head, tries to dislodge the rejection and anger from his stomach. 

“Yeah, Xabs,” he says. “I’ll be right out.” 

He turns off the shower, shivers as the cool air hits his wet skin. He grabs a large, fluffy towel that’s hanging just outside the shower area and wraps it around his waist. He makes sure that Xabi’s out of the room before stepping out of the bathroom in search of clothes because another thing he hates is making people he cares about worry and, he thinks, just because he’s almost painfully thin doesn’t mean there’s anything to worry about. Yet. 

 

“Don’t you have work, tío?” Sergio asks, shoving a spoonful of seafood paella in his mouth. It’s not nearly as good as what mama makes, but it’s good enough and it’s food, so Sergio doesn’t really think to complain. He sits at the bar of a restaurant that’s crowded with families for the lunch hour. Xabi sits two seats down from him and Stevie’s somehow ended up in the middle. Sergio doesn’t mind. He’s known Stevie long enough now that he likes the older man. They’re almost brothers. 

“The law waits for no man,” Stevie says around a spoonful of stew. He chews on it and swallows with a small grin. “Except for me, we’ve worked out an agreement.” 

“It waits for you when Xabi needs something extra for his breakfast?” Sergio asks brightly. To the left of Stevie, Xabi chokes on his glass of water and he’s apparently trying to cough it out of his lungs as Stevie roars with laughter and Sergio chuckles into his sangria. 

“I am perfectly fine with the breakfast I have,” Xabi says, a little stiffly, which only delights Sergio more because there’s entirely too much innuendo to be ignored. He doesn’t get a chance—Xabi opens his mouth before he can say a thing. “Don’t even think about it. Eat your paella.” 

Stevie chuckles over his stew, sighs and leans back when he’s almost finished. He’s shrugged out of his suit jacket in order to be more comfortable and stretches in his seat.

“Haven’t had a good breakfast in damned ages,” he mutters, grumbling. Sergio grins as he takes a mouthful of his drink and Xabi tries not to color while failing spectacularly. 

“How do you take your sausage?” Sergio asks without missing a beat. Xabi lets out a strangled sort of sound. He opens his mouth to comment, most likely with a death threat, but Stevie gets to it first. 

“Any way I can,” Stevie says amiably.

“What size?” 

“I like a lot of sausage,” Stevie grins immediately. 

“I have to go,” Xabi chokes out from his other side. He’s completely bright red and none too amused by the fact that Sergio is basically cackling in his seat. He slips past both his boyfriend and Sergio, jabbing the younger man hard in his side before disappearing into the throng of children and their desperate parents. 

Sergio finishes cackling into his sangria, downing it like a fish out of water. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“What? We were just talking about breakfast,” he says innocently. He takes another spoonful of paella before realizing he’s full. He pushes a shrimp to the side with his spoon. 

“Damn straight we were,” Stevie says. “Nothing wrong with a good breakfast.”

“Or lunch or dinner,” Sergio hums.

“Or dessert.”

“Or after-dessert.”

“A good sausage is never out of the question,” Stevie says decisively. “Or a banana for that matter.”

Sergio hums again, appreciatively. 

“Banana is a very versatile fruit,” he adds. Then, pleased with his contribution to the discussion, he piles one last heap of rice into his mouth and swallows with ease. He hops off his stool and reaches for wallet, although he knows that there’s nothing there. 

“Stop,” Stevie admonishes immediately. He slaps Sergio’s hand away from his wallet and reaches into his jacket pocket. Sergio frowns, but Stevie’s too used to the younger man, he knows better than to accommodate Sergio’s guilt-complex. “They pay me too much anyway, the least I can do is stick paella in you so that it doesn’t end up in me.”

“Xabi’s a bad influence on you,” Sergio says. 

“Don’t I know it,” Stevie replies, shaking his head. He shrugs on his jacket, nods to the man behind the bar. “He has me reading before bed now.”

“Not real books?” Sergio asks with the appropriate amount of concern. 

“So you do understand.” Stevie’s grave look is almost comical. The two of them walk through tables and chairs pushed together to form spaces almost too narrow to pass through. They pass by a particularly loud table and a teenaged girl looks up at Sergio through her eyelashes. Next to him, Stevie coughs a laugh.

When they reach the cool, noon air, Xabi’s already brought back coffee from the café next door. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck and a carton with three coffees and a paper bag with pastries in it.

“Are you two quite finished?” he asks in seeming irritation.

“Not even close to it,” is Stevie’s reply. He leans forward and receives a kiss from Xabi for his efforts. Sergio feels a sharp pang of panic go through his chest, a discolored bruise on his neck that starts to lightly throb. He looks around nervously, but there’s no one watching them. He swallows a mouthful of air, tries to settle the hairs that immediately prick up at the back of his neck.

“When will you be done today?” 

Stevie wrinkles his face and takes the coffee from Xabi.

“Six or seven? We picked up another case so it might be later, I’ll call and let you know.” 

Xabi hands him the pastry back and Stevie leans in for another kiss. Sergio doesn’t feel awkward, because it’s nice to watch them like this, heads tucked in close, the wind turning Xabi’s cheeks pink while a small, wry smile plays out on Stevie’s face. They’re not domestic, they’re comfortable. Obviously in love. It’s like they’re meant for each other in a completely unbreakable way and it makes Sergio close his eyes because there’s a sharp pain in his chest where desire pools. 

“Let me know if you need me to pick up dinner,” Stevie says. He and Xabi untangle and Sergio opens his eyes with a smile. “You’re staying for dinner, right, Serge?”

Sergio opens his mouth to protest, but Xabi doesn’t let him say a word.

“Of course.” 

“I’ll find something that all of us will like then,” Stevie says. He presses a kiss to Xabi’s cheek and gives a fond pat to Sergio’s shoulder before he shuffles down the street toward his expensive and quite obviously luxurious car. 

“You really don’t have to,” Sergio says with a frown as he watches Stevie walk away. 

Xabi just takes him by his shoulder. 

“Shut up,” is his command. He hands Sergio his cup of coffee. “You can work it off anyway.”

Sergio raises an eyebrow, instantly suspicious. 

“I’m not handing out flyers, am I?”

“God no,” Xabi snorts. “I want them circulated, not lost halfway through.”

“Fuck you,” Sergio laughs, but he lets Xabi take his arm and steer him toward the metro anyway. He hasn’t been to headquarters in a while, but he’s never minded helping Xabi and the movement. He liked it, once, when there was more on his mind than mere survival. He thinks maybe he could have that again. Or maybe this moment is fleeting and Xabi’s laugh while they trip over turnstiles and board the train, bumping into little girls and their mothers, will disappear just as fast as everything else.

 

It’s rare that they get time together like this, just the two of them without Stevie or Jesús or one of Xabi’s colleagues or Sergio’s numerous compatriots. It’s mostly Sergio’s fault; he has a habit of not wanting to be found at the best of times and a terrible habit of not being found when he finally wants to be found. He hasn’t spent time like this with Xabi in years, he thinks, but he’s just so emotionally and physically exhausted that, at the moment, he can’t bring himself to detach from the situation like he would normally. 

“You’re tired again,” Xabi says quietly. They’re sitting on the metro quietly, watching streaks of light and more overwhelming streaks of dark flash past the window. The entire train rattles because it’s old and there haven’t been funds or the initiative to fix it in years. Sergio’s shoulder bumps lightly against Xabi’s and he nearly loses grip on his cup of coffee. He’s only halfway finished, but he drinks so slowly that the coffee is lukewarm by now away. Xabi had noticed this about ten minutes ago and tutted. Xabi was a fast drinker; his coffee had been drained within minutes. 

“Hm?” Sergio lifts his head from where it was vaguely resting on Xabi’s shoulder to look up at him. 

“You slept late, but you’re getting tired again.” Xabi presses a hand to Sergio’s lower arm and squeezes. “Why aren’t you eating? There’s a reason I brought you home.”

Sergio shifts in irritation.

“I’m not a puppy, Xabi, I don’t need to be taken care of.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Xabi says, slightly sharper than before. “Everyone needs to be taken care of Sergio, I don’t know where you developed this bullshit way of thinking.”

“I eat fine,” Sergio mutters, a little crossly. “I just ate, you saw me.”

“You were barely done with your bowl,” Xabi sighs. They both look across at a young girl reading a Harry Potter book. Her hair’s braided into pigtails and each hangs over a shoulder. She scrunches her face in concentration and Sergio can’t help but smile. He really does love children. “I’m not trying to coddle you, Serge, I just worry.”

“You have nothing to worry about, I told you,” Sergio emphasizes. He tries to read the small writing on the back cover of the book, but he can’t make it out. 

“You come to my doorsteps with the shit beat out of you and I have nothing to worry about,” Xabi exhales. He shakes his head, partly in frustration, party in exasperation. 

“Well it’s not going to happen again,” Sergio says. He doesn’t realize that his voice tightens or that his shoulders stiffen, but apparently they do because Xabi notices the change immediately. He bumps shoulders with Sergio gently, almost soothingly.

“What happened?”

Sergio turns to him.

“What do you mean what happened?” 

“I _mean_ , what happened?” Xabi settles Sergio with a steely gaze, the same look he’s given Sergio for years, the one that he knows Sergio is powerless to fight against because it musters about as much authority as Xabi possesses. And Xabi possesses quite a bit. 

Sergio’s shoulder slumps, any fight that he pre-possessed gone out of him in an instant. He doesn’t have much energy to fight anyway and Xabi’s more than right, as usual, he’s as tired as he was when he woke up. He feels the energy rapidly leaving his body, leaving him cold all over and his limbs shaking from the effort. 

He shrugs.

“It didn’t work out.”

Xabi frowns. 

“When did this happen? The last time, you were so happy—”

“Shit happens, okay?” Sergio cuts in sharply. He sighs and covers his face with his hand, rubs them over wearily. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you want, sometimes people get in the way.”

“Someone didn’t approve?” Xabi asks gently. As usual, he seems to be annoyingly intuitive.

“A lot of someones,” Sergio shrugs. He uncovers his face and slides back in his seat so that his feet are stretched out inconsiderately into the aisle. “It’s not supposed to matter, but it did. To him.”

“Mattered enough to break your heart?” Xabi’s face is flickering in all kinds of displeasure.

_And his_ , Sergio would say if he was sure. As it is, he isn’t sure at all, only about himself and even then it’s everything he swore he would never feel again. Years ago, when Iker Casillas broke his heart, Sergio had said there was a button, a way to turn off and on the way he felt, he had said that even if there wasn’t one, he would create it. It had worked for long enough to protect him. And then there was that one moment when he forgot about it completely.

The truth is, he misses Fernando. He misses the smile on his face, the way his blond hair fell across the top of his forhead, his freckles, his dimples, every cliché fucking thing he can think of. He misses teaching him the guitar and being able to talk to him and being able to make him laugh and being able to touch him. He misses how normal he felt with Fernando; even though Fernando was the prince and Sergio was the pauper, it never felt that way. Sergio hadn’t felt that whole in years and he supposes he misses that most of all. 

“It was complicated, Xabi,” Sergio says quietly. He watches as the young girl across from them carefully bookmarks her place in her volume. She puts it away neatly into her backpack and stands next to a woman who could only be her mother. Her mother offers her hand and the young girl takes it and they walk off the metro as it grinds to a halt. 

“It wasn’t your choice, was it?” Xabi says quietly. He runs a hand through the younger man’s hair. He’s as gentle as he can be and Sergio thinks that hurts more than anything. He shakes his head and tries to break away from the offending touch.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It always matters.”

“I didn’t love him.”

Xabi quiets and his frown softens into the saddest look possible. Sergio looks away, can’t even look Xabi in the eyes as he says it.

And that’s when they both know.


	21. VIII. Sergio; Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VIII. Sergio; **Part II**_  
>  **Word Count:** 3,512  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres; mentions of Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique and Sami Khedira/Mesut Özil  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG-13 for language  & some violence  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html) | [ AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/works)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Notes:** Oops, I completely forgot to post last week! I hope those still reading/just stumbling onto this fic enjoyed last chapter. Gotta muck through some plot this week, but hopefully it’s fun to read!
> 
>  **FYI** for those of you who have Livejournals and prefer to follow this story that way (or check out some of my other fic) -- all of my works (including the numerous ones I haven't posted to AO3) can be found at: [crinklefries @ LJ](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com).
> 
> Leave me some of your thoughts and feelings! Cheers!

**VIII. Sergio**  
 _come ride with me_  


They get off the metro at the very end of the line. The compartments are mostly cleared by then, minus the few stragglers, a man in a business suit, and Xabi and Sergio. Xabi gets up first and offers the younger man a hand. Sergio ignores it although he has to grab one of the poles for a moment before they both hop off.

“Cesc will have something to eat, don’t worry,” Xabi says as they duck through exit turnstiles again.

Sergio snorts. 

The walk to the headquarters isn’t terrible. It’s a short distance from the metro station in an area that’s mostly dilapidated and overrun, but not so worse for the wear that it’s unbearable. Sergio’s lived in worse conditions. Sergio _does_ live in worse conditions. He wraps his scarf closer to his neck and he and Xabi set a brisk pace. 

“What’s his name?” Xabi asks a few minutes into silence. 

Sergio considers, but then reconsiders. 

“Fernando,” he shrugs gently.

It’s a common enough name, Sergio supposes, which is why Xabi only looks amused. 

“That’s the young prince’s name, you know. Not the youngest, but the next in line.”

Sergio smiles back at him faintly. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It is, isn’t it,” he says. “What a coincidence.”

“He’s getting married,” Xabi muses. Beside him, Sergio tenses immediately. The other man doesn’t notice, although Sergio hears a tinnying sound ring through his head. He keeps his eyes down, watches his steps as they fall one after another. 

“Is he.”

“To the Princess Olalla Dominguez. They’ve been informally betrothed since birth, but I suppose it’s official now.”

It’s funny, what a seemingly trivial piece of information it seems to Xabi. Something he read in the paper, something relevant only because there is now a possibility for an heir, a reason for the royal family to carry on its dynasty. What is a fun fact, a thoughtless musing to Xabi, is something Sergio can barely stand to hear, something held so closely to his heart that his entire being could unravel because of it. 

He had been furious at Fernando, furious at the phone call, furious even though he had known, logically, that that was what he had given up, that, logically, there had been no other alternative. 

The anger had lasted just long enough for the phone conversation to end and then he had crumpled onto his floor, palms pressed hard against his eyes, and the sound of his heart breaking had been more than just a cliché: he had felt it himself, again, for the second time in his life.

“When’s the wedding?” Sergio asks through pursed, thin lips.

“They haven’t said,” Xabi says with a shrug. They stomp over broken concrete and square slabs that don’t fit together right. Sergio nearly falls over one that sticks up from the ground unevenly, but Xabi catches him by the shoulder before he goes down. His entire hand wraps completely around Sergio’s upper arm. 

“Dios, Sergio,” he says, blinking.

Sergio shakes his arm free quickly and is saved further scrutiny by a young man with large eyes and a bright smile.

“Mister Sergio!” comes the loud greeting. Mesut has his earbuds in as he walks, hands in his pockets, but he takes the earbuds out as Sergio returns the smile.

“Wizard of Öz, just the person I wanted to see,” Sergio says. He wraps his arms around Mesut in a hug. The younger man looks over at Xabi and smiles, waves with one hand while patting Sergio’s back with the other.

“You are the thinning,” Mesut says to Sergio. “Coming on good day, Mister Sergio.”

“Why is that?” Xabi asks, instantly suspicious. 

“Cesc having food, lots, and big Álvaro also, is like feast!”

“I come in late one day,” Xabi mutters. 

“Is second day,” Mesut replies cheerfully. 

Sergio looks over the shorter man’s shoulder and gives Xabi possibly the most infuriating look of his life with possibly the most obnoxious cackle Xabi has ever heard. His mouth barely has time to form the words _large breakfast_ before Xabi’s steering both Sergio and Mesut carefully and pointedly toward the door to their building.

 

There’s faint murmuring just from the doorway, but it gets louder and louder until the thrum of voices is less a thrum and more a dull roar. Sergio doesn’t understand what the commotion is; simply assumes that Gerard and Cesc are fighting or Raul broke Álvaro’s computer again. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a hook in the hallway, turning around the corner with Mesut who has a small stack of papers with various markings on them.

“I have getting the times,” Mesut shuffles past both Sergio and Xabi. Robin, who’s in the board room etching crosses and checkmarks into a chart that Khedira is finishing. 

“Was that on campus or near the factories?” Robin asks Khedira. Khedira, who’s near the bottom of the board finishing a particular square pauses. 

“Factories, I think. There was a breakout near Aragon, but the university there is small and they have a strong Royalist community. But there are textile factories at the border between Aragon and Navarre that employ a very large, poor population.” Khedira finishes writing something small in the corner before standing up. Robin’s reached up to add a checkmark and a small note to Aragon’s box. “I think Álvaro was the one who found that story, no?”

“It was literally two sentences in the official news, but there were blocked blogs Raul managed to hack into,” Álvaro offers from the other side of the room. Next to him, Raul bobs his head up and down in proud agreement. Khedira snorts and Robin adds in another note. 

“Times, times!” Mesut says emphatically and waves his notepad in Khedira’s face who, admittedly, is the one standing in between the young man and Robin. 

Khedira’s face changes into a grin. 

“Hey Mesut,” he says and leans forward to press a kiss to Mesut’s cheek. Mesut falters, as though his movements are in conflict with what he wants them to be, and Sergio has to turn to Xabi to hide a smile. Xabi smiles as well, although he doesn’t hide it. They’re all fond of Mesut and even Sergio knows how hard the young man tries to not let his feelings for Khedira show. 

He doesn’t need to, of course, which is the ironic thing, but the rest of them had decided long ago against interfering, preferring to see how it played out instead. 

“Who did you get these from?” Robin asks. He has his tongue stuck out between his teeth and is staring at the board in front of them. 

“I am talking to people,” Mesut says with a frown. “I am knowing how.”

“Of course you do,” Khedira says automatically. He takes the notepad from Mesut and scans what it has to say. “Are these all planned?”

“Yes,” Mesut nods. “Planning for now, but not um—wie sagt man ‘koordiniert”?”

“Coordinated,” Khedira translates for him.

“It happens, maybe,” Mesut says. “Angry. Lots of anger, I think.”

“Anger,” Xabi says with a nod and a low laugh. “We could use a little more anger in Andalucía.”

He ducks past Cesc, who’s leaning over Gerard’s laptop screen and pointing at something, to stare at the pinpoints on the board. In an organized chart befitting a man only as particular as Xabi, Robin and Khedira have managed to diagram not only centers of resistance and support for the movement, but create a chart of when waves of protest will bubble up, where, and for how long. It’s not as technical as a computer program, but it’s much more visual and even Sergio can pick out themes in dissent. 

“I think there’s some coordination south, but the northern movements are all dispersed probably because pro-Royalist communities are so prevalent. You have the wealthiest states, so of course they’re going to be more sporadic than centrally or down south.”

He stares at the chart and leans in while Robin explains a particular point near Catalonia.

Xabi shakes his head. 

“I have no contact with them. I mean I’ve tried, but what the Catalonians and Basques are doing are beyond my control.”

“I thought you had ties to the Basques,” Sergio raises an eyebrow. Everyone in the room stills for a moment and looks up at him, blinking. He glares at all of them. “What? I pay attention and shit.”

“Remember that time Xabi told you to distribute flyers and recruit—” Cesc begins with a grin.

“ _Let it go_.”

Everyone in the room laughs and even Xabi has to shake his head from amusement. 

“I do, but it’s complicated,” he answers with a frown. He turns to Cesc and Gerard. “Can you pull up the map on the projector? I want to look at the areas a bit closer.”

“Sure,” Gerard begins pulling up a file while Cesc reaches up to push the button of the projector on. There’s no screen for it to display on, but there’s an expanse of blank wall that more or less does the trick. 

“See, here’s the thing,” Xabi says at the map. He traces the boundaries of Basque region. “Their forces are influenced a lot by the Portuguese and the French. Neither countries like the Royal family and least of all David. That would be great for us, but since the Basques have been trying to separate for years, I don’t know that they would unite under our cause.”

“Chances are they’d help tear down the monarchy and then separate from us,” Robin says, staring at the map in contemplation. 

“Which wouldn’t help at all,” Xabi agrees. 

”Do you know who’s leading the separatist charge?” Robin asks. 

“José Mourinho,” Xabi says. Sergio thinks he looks at the map strangely as he says the other man’s name, but he has no idea why that would be. 

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I’ve tried.” 

“And?”

“Mourinho is not a man who likes to be found,” Xabi says through tight lips.

“Can we do it without him?” Sergio asks. He lifts himself onto a table next to Cesc. The shorter man immediately rests his head on Sergio’s shoulder and Sergio smiles. 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Xabi says, “But if we can target the help of the Catalans, it won’t matter as much. They’re likely to fall into the fold once they realize the rest of the country has united.” 

“It’s a matter of keeping them together long enough to form a democratic government,” Robin finishes Xabi’s train of thinking. 

“Catalonia’s movement is strong, but they’ve never been half as strong or vocal as the Basques. They just want stability and for the Royals to stop exploiting their resources. No,” Xabi says with a sigh, “if we have a problem, it will be with my people.” 

He shakes his head slightly, as though in amusement, but in all reality, exhaustion. Sergio can see the way his shoulders sag, as though under the burden of the world which, he supposes, is apt as well.

“Too much to think of now,” Álvaro yawns from his seat. “The Knights will have enough to deal with between Basque violence and now us—”

“Basque violence?” Xabi asks sharply. 

“Dios, tío, where have you been?” Álvaro looks at Xabi skeptically. “Even the Royals couldn’t stop the news outlets from leaking it. They took a few regiments of Knights down because the Catalans rose up at the same time.”

“When was this?” Xabi blinks. 

“Errrr, when were you showing me the videos, Raul?” he nudges the man next to him who’s had his face tucked into his arm on the desk for the past ten minutes. 

“Last week, I think,” Raul looks up blearily at the room. 

“A week,” Xabi glares around the room. “A week ago and no one thought to tell me?” 

“You’ve been busy,” Cesc shrugs. He gets bored of Sergio and promptly sits down on Gerard’s lap. Gerard grins and wraps his arms around Cesc’s smaller waist. He rests his chin on Cesc’s shoulder although he’s so much taller that he looks a bit like an ostrich bending down to pick up food with its beak.

“Joder, I have a phone,” Xabi says in irritation. 

“Wouldn’t want to take away from Steven’s calls,” Raul says into his arm and everyone turns their heads to snicker. Xabi bristles, eyes flashing, clearly ready to tell off each and every one of his colleagues for being, well, dicks. 

Robin rests a hand on Xabi’s shoulder to calm him, but there’s no need because they’re both interrupted.

“Ten minutes,” Mesut says from a corner. He’s leaning into Khedira who has taken to picking through a bowl of trail mix for him. Mesut eats only the candy pieces and Khedira pops in raisins and pretzels. 

“Ten minutes?” Sergio asks. 

“Until?” Xabi turns to Mesut. 

Mesut looks at the map and points. 

“Murcia.”

The room looks toward the map and a silence descends on them. Sergio thinks it’s so quiet that he can hear each person thinking, not individually, but in a collective. The sole clock on the wall sounds resoundingly loud as the second hand ticks toward the hour mark. It makes Sergio nervous. He doesn’t like anticipating without knowing the possible outcome.

“Do we know what we’re expecting?” he asks, breaking the silence. Everyone’s eyes flicker over to Xabi.

“No,” Xabi says, looking from the clock to Mesut’s face and back again. He shakes his head. “I think that’s what worries me.”

 

It isn’t televised. Of course it isn’t televised. What Sergio had been expecting—what Xabi had been, what every person in the room had tensed for—was nothing close to the reality. Álvaro found it on Twitter first. He made quick work of searching through hashtags, first globally, then by country, and then by region. It wasn’t so obvious at first, but then his feed was barraged with tweet after tweet marked #larevolución. Not particularly subtle, but Raul found the link to a live video feed and it became apparent that subtlety was the last concern on any of their minds. 

Sergio thinks he only remembers such a spontaneous, almost reckless pillaging and borderline violence in England, a year ago, during riots of unrest from their unemployed and disenchanted youth. There’s a main movement coursing centrally through the streets, rows upon rows of protesters with signs; men, women, and their children, with no dividing classification between them. These protesters are loud, there are chants and shouts that become lost in the static of the live stream. There’s a semblance of organization and nonviolent protest, initially. And then someone throws a rock through the window of an expensive store.

That’s when hell breaks loose. Police sirens soon flood the streets along with armed policemen themselves and the protesters disperse only to reassemble around them. More rocks are thrown, the police are shoved and pressed around. A group of young men break off from the group and storm the previously damaged store. That’s where it begins. Soon, more groups diverge, not in peaceful demonstration, but in mindless, almost relentless displays of frustration. Stores are broken into, trashcans upturned, punches and objects thrown at police officers that keep shouting for back up. The police shoot tear gas into the audience at some point and a mother and her daughter scream from pepper spray shot into their eyes and mouth. 

Sergio’s stomach churns. He feels lightheaded and sways on his feet. Xabi is immediately there, gripping at his shoulders so hard that they’re sure to bruise, but he remains standing upright. 

“Jesús Cristo,” Sergio mutters in horror, but he can’t turn his eyes away. He’s clenching his fists so hard that his long nails draw blood into the palms of his hands. 

It only gets worse from there. The crowd breaks up into veritable mobs—angry mobs that only become angrier as the police react, as they call in Knights stationed just past outside of the town. 

“Is this the only one?” Xabi asks. His eyes are steely, his voice icy.

“There are at least a dozen cities in Murcia broken out right now,” Álvaro whispers. Raul is pressed closed to him, a hand on his thigh. “This is just one of them.” 

It’s only when the crowd starts screaming from the onslaught of the Knights who have assembled around them, guns and shields surrounding the crowd in a degrading and almost inhumane manner that Sergio staggers away.

Xabi doesn’t try to stop him. He’s too glued to the stream, as is everyone else in the room. Cesc moves immediately, shifts off of Gerard’s lap and follows at Sergio’s elbow. 

“Fuck, Sese,” Cesc mutters and steadies Sergio by his shoulders. 

“I need air,” Sergio gasps. 

“They won’t miss me,” Cesc whispers as he casts a glance over his shoulder at the room, enraptured and still in the unexpected motions of a movement that they not only catalyzed, but began. 

Cesc throws a jacket on as Sergio manages to find his and shrug it over his shoulders. He feels nauseous, a churning in his stomach that’s almost as violent as the need to throw up. As Cesc wrenches open the front door, Sergio stumbles down the steps and onto the street, makes it around the corner of the railing before heaving into a bush set against the side of the building. 

Cesc is there automatically, a hand and his back and Sergio braces his hands against the wall as he empties his stomach. His throat hurts from acid and his head hurts from emotions and his frame is shaking when he’s finally done and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“You knew it wasn’t going to be peaceful, didn’t you?” Cesc asks softly. He reaches over, the sleeve of his jacket coming past his hand and uses it to wipe away some of the sweat forming on Sergio’s brow. 

“Fuck,” Sergio rasps. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe in through his nose. “Yeah. I just didn’t. Fuck.” 

Cesc doesn’t say anything for a minute, but then Sergio finds smaller fingers encircling his thin wrist. 

“I didn’t think so either. I mean I tried to think it would be grand, peaceful, like the Civil Rights movement in America or Gandhi, you know? You always fucking see that,” Cesc says. Sergio opens his eyes and looks at him. He’s a little blurry. Sergio tries not to sway on his feet. Or think about how he’s suddenly clammy and cold. “You always think, this could be it, we could be like that. Non-violent, proving a point. But fuck, it doesn’t end up like that.” 

Cesc looks at Sergio and Sergio sees sympathy and compassion in the younger man’s eyes, but a steely determination too. Sergio understands why Xabi trusts him so much to lead the younger guys. 

“This is what we have to do, Serge. If we’re willing to fight for a cause, we need to be willing to die for it too.”

Sergio’s face clouds over. There’s a reason, he thinks. He’s never fucking been Xabi or even Steven. These are the things he’s never aspired to be—war, protests, laying his life on the line for something bigger than himself. All he’s ever wanted is to inspire people by music, to create something from deep within himself with impact that lasts minutes, not decades. 

“You think they’ll die, Cesc?” he asks. He doesn’t like this question. He hates this question. 

“That’s why they’re rioting,” Cesc says. “They know they might. And they’re okay with it. It’s for the greater purpose.”

Sergio laughs lowly. It has no mirth because he feels none. He feels sick is what he feels. 

“Not them,” he says, breathing heavily through his nose. He waits a moment and then his shoulders sag. “The Royals. The King, his advisors.” And then softer, “His brothers.”

“Not by us,” Cesc says, looking at Sergio sympathetically. “We don’t want to kill them. We just want our country back.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Sergio looks from the sky to Cesc. His eyes are loaded with the question and he thinks it’s strange how okay Cesc is with something like this, that he doesn’t question it at all.

“I don’t know, Sergio,” Cesc shakes his head. He looks as sad as Sergio feels or maybe it’s just that Sergio feels as sad as everyone looks. “Maybe. They might die.”

Sergio nods, detached, a bit mechanically. 

They might die, he thinks. King David, the youngest prince, Bojan. The Sergio that clearly had feelings for the young prince. They might all die.

 _Fernando might die_ , is the point the voice in his head is trying to make. 

Fernando might be killed, Sergio thinks blankly. He looks at Cesc and at the building behind them, thinks about Steven and Xabi and a chart with movements planned out methodically. 

Fernando might be killed, Sergio thinks, and he wonders if it might not be his fault if he is.


	22. VIII. Sergio; Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter:** _VIII. Sergio; **Part III**_  
>  **Word Count:** 3,098  
>  **Chapter Ships & Characters:** Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso  
>  **Chapter Rating:** PG  
>  **Links:** [Table of Contents](http://crinklefries.livejournal.com/3907.html) | [ AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/works)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any time I decide to focus on this fic, my life becomes all sorts of rambunctious kinds of busy. If I forget to post a week, please remind me! 
> 
> This is Sergio’s last POV for now. I hope you enjoy. :)

**VIII. Sergio**  
 _come ride with me_  


It’s a simple task, leaving the headquarters with Cesc for more fresh air but, more importantly, to set the agenda with the unions. Villa and Puyol had agreed on terms, finally, and all that was needed to initiate action, right here, was a simple exchange of information—a date and time. Xabi didn’t trust computers to run without interference or, for that matter, phones to not be tapped, so he had sent Cesc and Sergio had been more than willing to accompany him.

They’re on the metro when Sergio passes a bald man with an unsettling smile. He looks familiar, but Sergio can’t place it. The man smiles at him, cocks his head, and Sergio would swear it was a look meant for him if, in the intervening time between the train stopping and more people getting off, the man hadn’t disappeared.

Puyol is a tall man with curls that spread across his shoulders and not in a way that Sergio would consider attractive. Villa is shorter—much shorter—and scowls a lot. They eye each other distastefully, but Cesc seems to be in a good enough mood to set them at ease. 

No one can truly be at ease, but Cesc buys them both paper cups of coffee. Sergio notices numbers in sharpie written on both of them. He doesn’t get a close look before they’re hidden under their palms. 

“Why doesn’t he answer his calls,” Villa scowls. He chugs his coffee. He’s careful not to turn his cup. 

“Probably because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Cesc answers cheerfully.

“Who would want to talk to you?” Puyol says a moment later and Villa mutters rapidly under his breath. 

“You’re both remarkably pleasant, did you know that?” Cesc adds. They both glare at him and Sergio doesn’t bother to hide his laugh. They both turn their attention to him, suspicious, and he shrugs.

“I’m with him, hombre,” Sergio says to Villa. Villa doesn’t seem to like that explanation.

They don’t linger after that. Puyol shifts one way and Villa another and they’re gone before Sergio can think that their sudden movements would be suspicious regardless. 

“They’re not the brightest are they?” he observes. Cesc buys him a scone and he nibbles on a corner. His stomach growls loudly and he ignores it. He’s tired of being bought food.

“They’re good at what they do,” Cesc chuckles. They turn back onto the street, arms held close to block from the wind. “It doesn’t seem like it, but they’re good friends.”

“Fucking?” Sergio asks, eyebrow raised.

Cesc cocks his head and considers.

“No, I don’t think so.” He shrugs as they decide to skip the metro and take a cab instead. Sergio shifts as Cesc flags one down. Andalucía’s public transit system, much like the rest of the country, is filled with disrepair and the obvious affects of lack of funding and investment. 

The cab that stops at the curb is dirty, spitting out plumes of dark exhaust. Sergio can hear the grumbling of the engine even before they get inside. The seats are deeply ripped and covered in grit, but neither of them care. 

“To here,” Cesc says, handing the driver a card. He leans back into the seat and turns to whisper to Sergio, “It’s not the real address. We’ll have to walk a block. Hey—what’s that?” 

Sergio raises an eyebrow at Cesc before looking down at what he’s talking about.

“Is that an envelope?” Cesc asks, frowning. He reaches forward and grabs it from Sergio’s pocket before he can react. 

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Sergio frowns as well, eyeing it. “It wasn’t there before.”

“Oh fuck,” Cesc says worriedly. “God I hope no one was following us, shit.”

He slides a thumb under the back of the envelope to open. 

“No one was following us,” Sergio says, although it’s uneasy. He has a sudden flashback to the metro, to unsettling eyes and an even more unsettling smile. 

“It’s a letter,” Cesc says. He pulls out the sheaf of paper and unfolds it. 

Sergio looks over at the younger man and it’s a progression of features—it begins slow, a slight frown at the corners of his mouth, a wrinkle to the edges of his eyes. It’s more rapid after that, the crumpling of his face, the widening of his eyes, the way his hand darts out to grip Sergio’s arm until it’s so painful Sergio hisses. 

“Cesc, what the fuc—”

“Fuck. Oh fuck. God, Sergio, fuck.” 

“Cesc, what the fuck—” Sergio tries again, but Cesc is nearly hyperventilating now.

“Fuck, can you go faster? Please, fuck, I’ll pay you whatever, just book it,” he says to the driver. The driver looks in his rearview window, gives them a suspicious look, but complies. 

“Will you answer me—”

Cesc shoves the letter into Sergio’s hand. Sergio opens it carefully, eyes scanning over the words faster than he can process them. He has to slow down, stop, and start again at the beginning. 

His eyes grow wider too, his palms clammy, he can feel his heart start to race in a way that’s all too familiar—anxiety, dread, complete and utter terror. He turns his eyes up to Cesc and he can tell they share the same feelings. 

Cesc’s grip on Sergio’s arm becomes even more blindingly painful, but Sergio’s too numb to feel it. 

“By royal decree,” Cesc whispers so softly he can barely be heard. Sergio shakes his head faintly and stares down at the letter again.

_By the Royal Decree of King David,_

_David Josué Jiménez Silva has been captured and held prisoner. Due to overwhelming evidence, he will not stand trial. He has been found guilty on thirteen counts of treason including: aiding, abetting, creating, encouraging, and catalyzing resistance and rebellion in order to unseat and cause harm and/or death to His Royal Highness. There will be no appeal. He will be put to death by firing squad in one week’s time._

And then scribbled underneath it in a completely unfamiliar and yet completely chilling handwriting—

_They’re coming for you next._

 

“Who gave this to you?” Xabi asks. His eyes are flashing in anger, his shoulders shaking in frustration and alarm. The room has dispersed, windows locked, lights turned down. They left headquarters immediately where they felt their presence compromised. They went in shifts, in groups of twos and threes, watching over their shoulders as though an attack could come at any moment. Of course it hadn’t, but it had unnerved them all to the point of dismissal. 

Xabi hadn’t told them when to come back. None of them could be sure, not so long as whoever was privy to their existence and information was found. 

Cesc and Álvaro are sitting at the kitchen table. Both have laptops in front of them. Raul had been sent home to run their emails and systems through security checks that he only had access to at his own house. For now, there’s nothing they can do but look through databases and see if they can come up with a definitional match of the only person Sergio could think of—the man on the train. 

“That’s all I noticed, Xabs,” Sergio says uneasily. He sits on a stool at the counter. Stevie pours five glasses of strong liquor. Sergio has no idea what it is, but he accepts it gratefully when Stevie offers. “Fuck, I was with Cesc the entire time, he didn’t notice either.”

“How the fuck could you two be so irresponsible?” Xabi glowers. He’s obviously angry, his face turning a mottled pink. Stevie tuts disapprovingly from behind the counter. He’s come home early on the advice of both Sergio and Álvaro in order to calm and contain Xabi. He’s been mostly unsuccessful, although no one blames him for it. 

“Calm down, Xabi,” Cesc says from his seat.

“Calm down?” Xabi turns on the young man. “Calm down? We’ve been fucking _compromised_ and—”

“And snapping at Sergio isn’t going to do a damn thing,” Cesc replies firmly. He’s settling Xabi with the look he’s receiving and Stevie looks over at Sergio questioningly, as though to ask when this happened and also how. Sergio shakes his head, not sure himself. “If it was the man he described, we’ll find him. If not, we have no way of knowing. Fuck, it could have been Puyi and Villa for all we know.”

“We’ll have to let them know,” Xabi says with a weary sigh. He rubs his face, clearly on edge and stressed. Stevie comes around from behind the counter and hands him a glass of bourbon. He wraps his arm around Xabi’s waist from behind and rests his chin on his shoulder. 

“Don’t tell them, love,” he says quietly. 

Xabi twists his head back questioningly.

“What?”

“You’re only going to create panic and undermine everything you’ve been working for,” Stevie says logically, calmly. “You don’t know where this is from or who it’s from. You haven’t found Silva yet and you don’t know if or when they’ll come for you. What are you going to tell Puyol and Villa? That a threat exists? What do you think they’re going to do?”

“Protect themselves,” Xabi answers, somewhat miserably.

“He’s right,” Sergio says. He rolls his shoulders uneasily. He hates getting mixed up in politics. He hates it. It’s ironic, then. “You can tell them to be cautious because it’s dangerous. Say that it’s a precaution because of what happened in Murcia. But telling them about ominous notes and half-baked ideas? It’s pointless. They won’t be able to do anything and they’ll be pissed at you and the movement for jeopardizing them in the first place.” 

Sergio gets nods from Cesc and Álvaro.

“He’s right, chico,” Álvaro agrees. “And anyway maybe this isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it’s a good thing that we know. We’ve been too naïve thinking that we are the only ones who know about us. The police and the Knights have eyes and ears everywhere, we haven’t been careful enough.”

Xabi’s entire body, stiff with tension and anxiety, slowly releases. He leans back into Stevie who murmurs something in his ear and presses a kiss to the back of his jaw.

“You’re right,” Xabi admits. 

“Of course we are, love,” Stevie says. “I can only offer legal advice, but what I can say is that there are no laws that allow a man to be sentenced to death without a trial. It’s completely against the law, both domestic and international. Granted laws here are fucked up because it’s all unwritten, but even then the Royals will have an incredibly difficult time executing Silva if people come to know about it. The international human rights watchdogs haven’t turned their attention to us yet, but if they do—” 

Stevie lets out a low whistle to complete his thought.

Xabi’s eyes narrow and he turns his head to look at his boyfriend. 

“You want us to leak the decree?”

Stevie shrugs.

“It’s an idea,” he says. And then adds, “Think of the backlash it would generate. It could be just what you need.”

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Sergio says suddenly. 

Everyone in the room quiets and looks over at him.

“Earlier today. Isn’t that what you said? That we could use more anger in Andalucía.”

Xabi looks at the decree in his hand, at the writing near the bottom in scrawled handwriting. He crushes the bottom of it in his palm and looks at his glass of bourbon. 

He wriggles free of Stevie and downs half the glass with a wince before setting it down. He looks a bit green, just a little bit nauseous. He looks down at the paper again and nods.

“So I did, Serge. So I did.”

 

It gathers pace after that, swift movements and late nights. Unfinished cups of coffee and deft looks over shoulders to make sure no one’s watching. He spends more time at the headquarters, spends more time with Xabi, spends more time reading through newspapers and watching riots unfold across the landscape. Suddenly he has an opinion, a smoldering anger that settles in the pit of his stomach, a voice he thinks could be heard if he thought to speak loudly enough. He becomes a whole person, or maybe the shell of who he used to be, but it’s less difficult to fall asleep at night when the person falling asleep isn’t the person who’s been broken time and time again. Sergio slowly recreates the life around him until he can barely recognize the person staring back at him in the mirror anymore. The outline is there, the traces of who he was and how he used to feel, but these days all he needs is a brush of his thumb across the mirror and the image changes. His eyes are expressionless and, Sergio thinks, he prefers it that way.

One morning Stevie looks up at him over a bowl of cereal, spoon in mouth, and eyebrows knit together like Sergio’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. 

“What?” Sergio asks nervously, toast halfway to his mouth. Xabi’s left for the office already. Sergio’s made plans to meet Cesc for lunch because the younger man hates running errands by himself, and Stevie has a late morning meeting with a client that he’s planning to drive to straight. It’s just the two of them quietly eating breakfast, Stevie ruffling through the sports section of the morning paper and Sergio staring blankly out the window.

Stevie doesn’t say anything for a moment, a moment too long, and it unnerves Sergio until his features fold into a frown.

“Did I do something?” Mentally, he begins counting the days; one weeks, two weeks, three— until Stevie clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“Now don’t start with that again,” he interrupts, as though he knows exactly what’s running through Sergio’s mind. “It’s been nice having you around, Serge. This house is too bloody big for just the two of us anyway and Xabi won’t let us get a goddamn dog—”

Sergio raises his eyebrow and Stevie’s lips twitch up. 

“—something about dog hair and his impeccable suits, you know the man as well as I do,” Stevie waves his hand dismissively. 

Sergio tries not to smile despite himself and settles with taking another bite of his toast. It’s slightly burnt, but the taste is lost on his tongue anyway. These days, he has more to eat than he’s ever had, but he can’t seem to stomach any of it. He nibbles at corners and picks at his food more like a bird than a person until the wave of nausea hits him and he gives up altogether.

Stevie carefully folds the newspaper, fingers drumming on the rest of the pages underneath. Sergio’s eyes flicker to the front page where he sees a picture of a slender woman with brown hair, pictured hand-in-hand with someone who’s trying to duck the flash of cameras. He doesn’t do a very good job, mostly because he’s laughing at something she’s said. His hair is no longer shocking streaks of blond, but a deep chestnut brown. It suits him. It suits him a lot. 

Sergio’s eyes flutter closed briefly, toast forgotten. It’s hard to breathe with the buzzing in his head, the acrid taste on the tip of his tongue and there it is again, that wave of nausea that steamrolls over him. 

He loses his appetite altogether.

Then again, he hasn’t had one in weeks.

When he opens his eyes again, his vision swims in and out momentarily, but he doesn’t miss the steely and slightly sympathetic look that Stevie gives him.

“Are you happy, Serge?” Stevie asks then, just as quiet as if Sergio had asked himself.

Sergio inhales through his nose, slowly, fighting the rising bile at the back of his throat. He reaches for his glass of orange juice and tips it back against his mouth. He drains it, lets the orange pulp coat his mouth until he can’t taste his feelings anymore.

He puts it back down on the table with a slight upshrug of his shoulder.

“Other people are happy,” Sergio finally says. He avoids Stevie’s eyes, avoids the concern, the worry lining the older man’s face because Sergio doesn’t need a reminder, he doesn’t need one more fucking reminder.

“I don’t care about other people,” Stevie says softly and it’s about as much as Sergio can bear. 

He pushes his chair back and gets up from the table. 

“I’ve gotta meet Cesc,” he mutters. He slides his thin frame into the worn leather of his jacket. It feels heavier on his shoulders than usual, the material dragging at the thin cotton shirt he’s wearing underneath. He takes his plate and glass to the sink, lets the water run over them and tries to exhale while he has the space to.

Stevie, for his part doesn’t say anything else. If he’s worried, he doesn’t show it and Sergio would be grateful if he had the capacity to feel anything else at all.

“Hey, Sergio—” Stevie says just as Sergio’s about to leave the kitchen. 

Sergio turns back, despite himself.

“I don’t know what happened. And it’s none of my business,” Stevie says softly. “But I bet it’s killing him more, not to have you in his life.”

Sergio’s eyes flicker toward the newspaper cover. If Stevie notices, he doesn’t follow his gaze.

“How could you know that?” Sergio finally replies, mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Because,” Stevie says. He gets up from the table himself, pushes his chair back and stands, stretches, and when he looks at Sergio again, it isn’t soft or apologetic, it’s sincere and matter-of-fact. “It kills everyone not to have you in their life.”

 

Sergio has no response. When he finally steps outside, blinks slowly up at the bright blue sky, the words settle thickly at the bottom of his stomach.

“It might kill him either way,” Sergio says softly to himself. Something flickers across his face quickly, briefly, a tightness in his chest, of aching or guilt, something as simple as sadness or complicated as _saudade_. Maybe it’s a part of him that one was, but has since gone missing. Whatever it is, it lasts no longer than a moment. 

Then he runs his tongue over his dried lips and shakes his head. Sergio sticks his hands in his pockets and picks his way to the metro station.

He’s expressionless again. Just the way he prefers.


End file.
